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THE UNIVERSITY 
OF ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


From the library of 
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1934 


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THE 


ODES OF HORACH, 


TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE, 


WITH 


A LIFE AND NOTES, 


BY 


THEODORE MARTIN. 


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UNIVERSHY OF ILLINOIS 
BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 


M DCCC LXVI. 


What practice, howsoe’er expert, 
In fitting aptest words to things ; 
Or voice, the richest-toned that sings, 
Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 
TENNYSON, 


University Press, Cambridge : 
Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 








LIFE OF HORACE. 


HorAceE is his own biographer. All the mate- 
rial facts of his personal history are to be gathered 
from allusions scattered throughout his poems. 
A memoir, attributed to Suetonius, of somewhat 
doubtful authenticity, furnishes a few additional 
details, but none of moment, either as to his char- 
acter or career. 

Quintus Horatius Flaccus was born vi. Id. Dew. 
A.U.C. 689 (Dec. 8, B.c. 65), during the consul- 
ship of L. Aurelius Cotta and L. Manlius Tor- 
quatus. His father was a freedman, and it was 
long considered that he had been a slave of some 
member of the great family of the Horatii, whose 
name, in accordance with a common usage, he had 
assumed, But this theory has latterly given place 
to the suggestion, based upon inscriptions, that he 
was a freedman of the town of Venusia, the mod- 
ern Venosa, the inhabitants of which belonged to 
the Horatian tribe. The question is, however, of 
no importance in its bearings on the poet’s life. 
The elder Horace had received his manumission 


6 LIFE OF HORACE. 


before his son was born. He had realized a mod- 
erate independence in the vocation of co-actor, a 
name borne indifferently by the collectors of pub- 
lic revenue, and of money at sales by public auc- 
tion. To which of these classes he belonged is 
uncertain, but most probably to the latter. With the 
fruits of his industry he had purchased a small prop- 
erty near Venusia, upon the bauks of the Aufidus, 
the modern Ofanto, in the midst of the Apennines, 
upon the doubtful boundaries of Lucania and Apu- 
lia. Here the poet was born, and in this pictu- 
resque region of mountain, forest, and stream the 
boy became imbued with the love of nature, which 
distinguished him through life. 

He describes himself (Ode IV. B. 3) as having 
lost his way, when a child, upon Mount Vultur, 
and being found asleep, under a covering of laurel 
and myrtle leaves, which the wood-pigeons had 
spread to shield this favourite of the gods from 
snakes and wild animals. The augury of the fu- 
ture poet said to have been drawn from the inci- 
dent at the time was probably an afterthought of 
Horace himself, who had not forgotten Anacreon 
and the bees; but, whatever may be thought of 
the omen, the picture of the strayed child, asleep 
with his hands full of spring flowers, is pleasing. 
In his father’s house, and in those of the Apulian 
peasantry around him, Horace had opportunities of 
becoming familiar with the simple virtues of the 
poor, — their independence, integrity, chastity, and 
homely worth, — which he loved to contrast with 


LIFE OF HORACE. 7 


the luxury and vice of imperial Rome. Of his 
mother no mention occurs, directly or indirectly, 
throughout his poems. This could scarcely have 
happened, had she not died while he was very 
young. He appears also to have been an only 
child. No doubt he had at an early age given evi- 
dence of superior powers; and to this it may have 
been in some measure owing, that his father re- 
solved to give him a higher education than could 
be obtained under a provincial schoolmaster, and, 
although ill able to afford the expense, took him to 
Rome when about twelve years old, and gave him 
the best education which the capital could supply. 
No money was spared to enable the boy to keep 
his position among his fellow-scholars of the higher 
ranks. He was waited on by numerous slaves, as 
though he were the heir to a considerable fortune. 
At the same time he was not allowed to feel any 
shame for his own order, or to aspire to a position 
which he was unequal to maintain. His father 
taught him to look forward to filling some situation 
akin to that in which he had himself acquired a 
competency, and to feel that in any sphere culture 
and self-respect must command influence, and af- 
ford the best guarantee for happiness. Under the 
stern tutorage of Orbilius Pupillus, a grammarian 
of high standing, richer in reputation than gold, 
whose undue exercise of the rod the poet has con- 
demned to a bad immortality, he learned grammar, 
and became familiar with the earlier Latin writers, 
and with Homer. He also acquired such other 


8 LIFE OF HORACE. 


branches of instruction as were usually learned by | 
the sons of Romans of the higher ranks. But, 
what was of still more importance, during this criti- 
cal period of his first introduction to the seductions 
of the capital, he enjoyed the advantage of his 
father’s personal superintendence, and of a careful 
moral training. His father went with him to all 
his classes, and, being himself a man of shrewd 
observation and natural humour, he gave his son’s 
studies a practical bearing, by directing his atten- 
tion to the follies and vices of the luxurious and 
dissolute society around him, and showing their 
incompatibility with the dictates of reason and 
*common sense. From this admirable father Hor- 
ace appears to have gathered many of “the rug- 
ged maxims hewn from life,” with which his works 
abound,’and also to have inherited that manly in- 
dependence for which he was remarkable, and 
which, while assigning to all ranks their due influ- 
ence and respect, never either overestimates or 
compromises its own. Under the homely exterior 
of the Apulian freedman we recognize the soul of 
the gentleman. His influence on his son was man- 
ifestly great. In the full maturity of his powers 
Horace penned a tribute to his worth,* in terms 
which prove how often and how deeply he had oe- 
casion in after-life to be grateful for the bias thus 
early communicated. His father’s character had 


ia 


* For a translation of the passage in the Sixth Satire of the 
First Book, here referred to, see note, infra, p. 283. 


LIFE OF HORACE. 9 


given a tone and strength to his own which, in the 
midst of manifold temptations, had kept him true 
to himself and to his genius. 

At what age Horace lost his father is uncertain 
Most probably this event occurred before he left 
Rome for Athens, to complete his education in the 
Greek literature and philosophy, under native 
teachers. This he did some time between the age 
of seventeen and twenty. At Athens he found 
many young men of the leading Roman families — 
Bibulus, Messala, the younger Cicero, and others— 
engaged in the same pursuits with himself. His 
works prove him to have been no careless student 
of the classics of Grecian literature, and, with a 
natural enthusiasm, he made his first poetical es- 
says in their flexible and noble language. His 
usual -good sense, however, soon caused him to 
abandon the hopeless task of emulating the Greek 
writers on their own ground, and he directed his 
efforts to transfusing into his own language some 
of the grace and melody of these masters of song. 
In the political lull between the battle of Pharsalia, 
A. U. C. 706 (B. Cc. 48), and the death of Julius 
. Cesar, A. U. Cc. 710 (B. 0.44), Horace was enabled 
to devote himself without interruption to the tran- 
quil pursuits of the scholar. But when, after the 
latter event, Brutus came to Athens, and the pa- 
trician youth of Rome, fired with zeal for the cause 
of republican liberty, jomed his standard, Horace, 
infected by the general enthusiasm, accepted a 
military command in the army which was destined 

1* 


10 LIFE OF HORACE. 


to encounter the legions of Anthony and Octavius. 
His rank was that of tribune, a position of so much 
importance, that he must have been indebted for 
it either to the personal friendship of Brutus or to 
an extraordinary dearth of officers, as he was not 
only without experience or birth to recommend 
him, but possessed no particular aptitude, physical 
or moral, for a military life. His appointment. 
excited jealousy among his brother officers, who 
considered that the command of a Roman legion 
should have been reserved for men of nobler blood ; 
and here probably he first came into direct collision 
with the aristocratic prejudices which the training 
of his father had taught him to defy, and which, at 
a subsequent period, grudged to the freedman’s son 
the friendship of the emperor and of Mecenas. 
At the same time he had manifestly a strong party 
of friends, who had learned to appreciate his ge- 
nius and attractive qualities. It is certain that he 
secured the esteem of his commanders, and bore an 
active part in the perils and difficulties of the cam- 
paign, which terminated in the total defeat of the 
republican party at Philippi, A. U. c. 712 (B.C. 42). 
A playful allusion by himself to the events of that 
disastrous field (Odes, II. vii. 9 et seg.) has been 
turned by many of,his commentators into an ad- 
mission of his own cowardice. ‘This is absurd. 
Such a confession is the very last which any man, 
least of alla Roman, would make. Addressing his: 
friend Pompeius Varius, Horace says : 


‘* With thee I shared Philippi’s headlong flight, 
My shield behind me left, which was not well, 


LIFE OF HORACE. 11 


When all that brave array was broke, and fell 
In the vile dust full many a towering wight.’ 
That Archilochus and Alczeus ran away on the 
field of battle, leaving their shields behind them, 
may or may not be true; but, however anxious to 
rank with them as poets, Horace was not likely to 
carry the parallel into details disgraceful to his 
manhood. An allusion, like the above, to the loss 
of his shield, could only have been dropped by a 
man who felt that he had done his duty, and that 
it was known he had done it. The lines may thus 
be safely regarded, according to the views of Les- 
sing and others, as a not ungraceful compliment to 
his friend, who continued the struggle against the 
triumvirate with the party who threw themselves 
into the fleet of Sextus Pompeius. This interpre- 
tation is confirmed by the language of the next 
_ verse, where, in the same spirit, he applies the epi- 
thet “paventem” to himself. 
‘‘ But me, poor trembler, swift Mercurius bore, 
Wrapp’d in a cloud through all the hostile din, 


While war’s tumultuous eddies, closing in, 
Swept thee away into the strife once more.” 


It was no discredit to Horace to have despaired of 
a cause which its leaders had given up. After the 
suicide of Brutus and Cassius, the continuance of 
the contest was hopeless; and Horace may in his 
short military career have seen, in the jealousy and 
selfish ambition of many of his party, enough to 
make him suspicious of success, even if that had 
been attainable. Republicans who sneered at the 


12 LIFE OF HORACE. 


freedman’s son were not likely to found any system 
of liberty worthy of the name. 

On his way back to Italy, Horace narrowly es- 
caped shipwreck off Cape Palinurus, on the coast 
of Sicily, an incident to which several allusions will 
be found in his Odes ; * and he reached home, only 
to find his paternal acres confiscated. His life was 
spared, but nothing was left him to sustain it but 
his, pen and his good spirits. He had to write for 
bread, — Paupertas impulit audazx ut versus facerem, 
(2 pist. IT. i. 51,) — and in so doing he appears to 
have acquired not only considerable repute, but 
also sufficient means to purchase the place of scribe 
in the Questor’s office, a sort of sinecure clerkship 
of the ‘Treasury, which he continued to hold for 
many years, if not, indeed, to the close of his life. 
It was upon his return to Rome that he made the 
acquaintance of Virgil and Varius, who were al- 
ready famous, and to them he was indebted for his 
introduction to Mecenas. The particulars of his 
first interview with his patron he has himself re- 
corded. (Sat. I. vi. 55 et seg.) It.is a curious cir- 
cumstance in the history of a friendship, among the 
closest and most affectionate on record, that nine 
months elapsed after their meeting before Mece- 
nas again summoned the poet to his house, and en- 
rolled him in the list of his intimate friends. This 


* It is quite possible that this incident may have occurred 
when Horace was on his way to Greece, or on some subsequent 
occasion, when he was going for health or pleasure to Velia or 
Tarentum. ‘There is no conclusive evidence as to the date. 


LIFE OF HORACE. 13 


event took place in the third year after the battle 
of Philippi; and, as the only claim of Horace, the 
man of humble origin, and the retainer of a defeat- 
ed party, to the notice of the minister of Augustus 
must have been his literary reputation, it is obvious 
that even at this early period he had established 
his position among the wits and men of letters in 
the capital. The acquaintance rapidly ripened into 
mutual esteem. It secured the position of the poet 
in society, and the generosity of the statesman 
placed him above the anxieties of a literary life. 
Throughout the intimate intercourse of thirty years 
which ensued, there was no trace of condescension ° 
on the one hand, nor of servility on the other. 
Mecenas gave the poet a place next his heart. 
He must have respected the man who never used 
his influence to obtain those favours which were 
within the disposal of the emperor’s minister, who 
cherished an honest pride in his own station, and 
who could be grateful without being obsequious. 
Horace is never weary of acknowledging how much 
he owes to his friend. When he praises him, it is 
without flattery. When he soothes his anxieties, or 
calms his fears, the words glow with unmistakable 
sincerity. When he’ resists his patron’s wishes, he 
is firm without being ungracious. When he sports 
with his foibles, he is familiar without the slightest 
shade of impertinence. 

By Mecenas Horace was introduced to Octavius, 
most probably soon after the period just referred 
to. In A. v.c. 717, a*year after Horace had been 


14 LIFE OF HORACE. 


admitted into the circle of his friends, Mzecenas 
went to Brundusium, charged by Octavius to ne- 
gotiate a treaty with Marcus Antonius. On this 
journey he was accompanied by Horace, who has 
left a graphic record of its incidents. (Sat. I. v.) 
It is probable that on this occasion, or about this 
time, the poet was brought to the notice of the 
future emperor. Between the time of his return 
from this journey and the year 722, Horace, who 
had in the mean time given to the world many of 
his poems, including the ten Satires of the first 
book, received from Mecenas the gift of the Sabine 
farm, which at once afforded him a competency 
and all the pleasures of a country life. The gift 
was a slight one for Mecenas to bestow, but he no 
doubt made it as the fittest and most welcome which © 
he could offer to his friend. It made Horace hap- 
py. It gave him leisure and amusement, and op- 
portunities for that calm intercourse with nature 
which he “ needed for his spirit’s health.” Never 
was a gift better bestowed or better requited. It. 
at once prompted much of that poetry which has 
made Mecenas famous, and has-afforded ever new 
delight to successive generations. The Sabine farm 
was situated in the valley of Ustica, about twelve 
miles from Tibur (Tivoli), and, among its other 
charms, possessed the valuable attraction for Hor- 
ace, that it was within an easy distance of Rome. 
When his spirits wanted the stimulus of society, or 
the bustle of the capital, which they often did, his 
ambling mule could speedily convey him thither ; 
and when jaded on the other hand by 


LIFE OF HORACE. 15 


The noise, and strife, and questions wearisome, 
And the vain splendours of imperial Rome, 
he could by the same easy means of transport, in a 
few hours bury himself among the hills, and there, 
under the shadow of his favorite Lucretilis, or by 
the banks of the Digentia, either stretch himself 
to dream upon the grass, lulled by the murmurs of 
the stream, or look after the culture of his fields, 
and fancy himself a farmer. The site of this farm 
has been pretty accurately ascertained, and it is at 
the present day a favourite resort of travellers, 
especially of Englishmen, who visit it in such num- 
bers, and trace its features with so much enthu- 
siasm, that the resident peasantry, “ who cannot 
conceive of any other source of interest in one 
so long dead and unsainted, than that of co-patriot- 
ism or consanguinity,” believe Horace to have been 
an Englishman.* The property was of moderate 
size, and produced corn, olives, and wine, but was 
not highly cultivated. Here Horace spent a con- 
siderable part of every year. The Sabine farm 
was very retired, being about four miles from Varia 
(Vico Varo), the nearest town, well covered with 
timber, and traversed by a small but sparkling 
stream. It gave employment to five families of 
free coloni, who were under the superintendence 
of a bailiff; and, besides these, eight slaves were 
attached to the poet’s “establishment. With his 


* See Letter by Mr. Dennis. Milman’s Horace, London, 1849, 
p. 109. ‘ 


16 LIFE OF HORACE. 


inexpensive habits this little property was sufficient 
for all his wants. He describes himself as Satis 
beatus unicis Sabinis, 


With what I have completely blest, 
My happy little Sabine nest. 


Odes, B. Il. 18. Here he could entertain a stray 
friend from town, — his patron Mecenas, upon 
occasion, — and the delights of this agreeable re- 
treat and the charm of the poet’s society, were 
doubtless more than a compensation for the plain 
fare or the thin home-grown wine, Vile Sabinum, 
with which its resources alone enabled him to re- 
gale them. , 

The life of Horace from the time of his intimacy 
with Mecenas appears to have been one of compar- 
ative ease and of great social enjoyment. Augustus 
soon admitted him to his favour, and, according to 
the memoir by Suetonius, ultimately sought to at- 
tach him to his person in the capacity of secretary: 
This offer Horace was prudent and firm enough to 
decline; while at the same time he had the tact 
not to offend the master of the world by his refusal. 
To the close of his life his favour at court continued’ 
without a cloud. Augustus not only liked the man, 
but entertained a profound admiration for the poet, 
Believing in the immortality of his writings, it was 
natural the emperor should cultivate the good will 
and seek to secure the “deathless meed” of his 
favourite’s song. That Horace had fought with 
Brutus against him did not operate to his prejudice. 
To have espoused the cause, and enjoyed the con- 


LIFE OF HORACE. V7 


fidence of one whose nobility of purpose his ad- 
versaries never scrupled to acknowledge, formed, 
indeed, in itself a claim upon his successful rival’s 
esteem. Horace was no renegade; he was not 
ashamed of the past, and Mcenas and Augustus 
were just the men to respect him for his indepen- 
dence, and to like him the better for it. They 
could appreciate his superiority to the herd of par- 
asites and time-servers around them; and like all 
the greatest actors on the political stage, they were 
above the petty rancours of party jealousy, or the 
desire to enfore a renunciation of convictions oppo- 
site to their own. Doubtless it was by never stoop- 
ing to them unduly that Horace secured their 
esteem, and maintained himself upon a footing of 
equality with them, as nearly as the difference of 
rank would allow. ‘There is no reason to suspect 
Horace, in the praises which he has recorded of 
Augustus, either of insincerity or sycophancy. He 
was able to contrast the comparative security of 
life and property, the absence of political turmoil, 
and the development of social ease and happiness, 
which his country enjoyed under the masterly ad- 
ministration of Augustus, with the disquietude and 
strife under which it had languished for so many 
years. The days of a republic had gone by, and 
an enlightened despotism must have been wel- 
comed by a country. shaken by a long period of 
civil commotion, and sick of seeing itself played for 
as the stake of reckless and ambitious men. He 
was near enough to the councils of the world’s 
B 


18 LIFE OF HORACE. 


master to understand his motives and to appreciate 
his policy; and his intimate personal intercourse 
with both Augustus and Mzcenas no doubt en- 
abled him to do fuller justice both to their in- 
tentions and their capacity, than was possible per- 
haps to any other man of his time. 

The envy which his intimacy with these two 
foremost men of all the world for a time excited in 
Roman society by degrees gave way, as years ad- 
vanced, and the causes of their esteem came to be 
better understood. Their favour did not spoil him. 
He was ever the same kindly, urbane, and simple 
man of letters he had originally been, never pre- 
suming upon his position, nor looking supereiliously 
on others less favoured than himself. At all times 
generous and genial, years only mellowed his wis- 
dom, and gave a finer polish to his verse. The un- 
affected sincerity of his nature, and the rich vein of 
his genius, made him courted by the rich and 
noble. (Odes, II. xviii. 9 et seg.) He mixed on 
easy terms with the choicest society of Rome, and 
what must that society have been, which included 
Virgil, Varius, Plotius, Tibullus, Pollio, and a host 
of others, who were not only ripe scholars, but had 
borne and were bearing a leading part in the great 
actions and events of that memorable epoch ? 

It is to this period that the composition of his 
principal odes is to be attributed. To these, of ali 
his writings, Horace himself appears to have as- 
cribed the greatest value, and, if we are to read 
literally the language of the last odes of the Second 


LIFE OF HORACE. 19 


and Third Books, to have rested upon them his 
claims to posthumous fame. They were the result 
of great labor, as he himself indicates: ‘ Operosa 
parvus Carmina fingo” (Odes, IV. ii. 31); and yet 
they bear pre-eminently the charm of simplicity-and 
ease. He was the first to mould the Latin tongue 
to the Greek lyric measures; and his success in 
" this difficult task may be estimated from the fact 
that, as he was the first, so was he the greatest of 
the Roman lyrists. It has become the fashion with 
certain grammarians of late years to decry his ver- 
sification as defective. It may be so, but we would 
rather follow the opinions of his contemporaries and 
countrymen on this point. Ovid expressed a dif- 
ferent opinion in the well-known lines: ~ 
Et tenuit nostras numerosus Horatius aures, 


Dum ferit Ausonia carmina culta lyra. 
IV. Trist. Eleg. X. 49. 


Oft on Horatius’ tuneful strains I’ve hung, 
Whilst to his sweet Ausonian lyre he sung 


Quinctilian’s criticism upon the Odes can scarce- 
ly be improved: “ Lyricorum Horatius fere solus 
lei dignus. Nam et insurgit aliquando, et plenus 
est jucunditatis et gratie, et variis figuris, et verbis 
felicissime audax.” In this airy and playful grace, 
in happy epithets, in variety of imagery, and 
exquisite felicity of expression, the Odes are still 
unsurpassed among the writings of any period or 
language. It is no doubt true that only in a few 
instances do they rise to grandeur of thought, or are 
marked by a high strain of emotion or of imagina- 


20 LIFE OF HORACE. 


tive expression ; but if they want for the most part 
the inspiration of a great motive, or the fervour and 
resonance of the finest lyrics of Greece, they pos- 
sess in perfection the power of painting an image 
or expressing a thought in the fewest and fittest 
words, combined with a melody of cadence al- 
ways delightful. It is these qualities and a pre- 
vailing vein of genial and sober wisdom, which im- - 
bue them with a charm quite peculiar, and have 
given them a hold upon the minds of educated 
men, which no change of taste has shaken. Their 
beauty of expression is indeed apt to blind the 
reader, upon occasion, to the poverty of idea and 
essentially prosaic turn of many of the Odes. Strip 
them of their dress, indeed, and their charm van- 
ishes. That even the best are inferior to his Greek 
models is not to be wondered at. Even although 
Horace had possessed the genius of Pindar or 
Sappho, it is doubtful whether, writing as he did in 
an artificial language, which he was compelled to 
make more artificial by the adoption of Greek 
forms and idioms, he could have found an adequate 
utterance for his inspiration. But to neither of 
these was his genius akin; and that good sense, 
which is his great characteristic, withheld him from 
ever either soaring too high or attempting to sustain 
his flight too long. His power of passion is limited, 
and his strokes of pathos are few and slight. His 
deepest tones are struck, when the decay of morals, 
and the selfish passions of faction, inspire him with 
indignation, or sadden him into despair. On these 


LIFE OF HORACE. ot 


subjects he felt intensely, and wrote with all the 
energy and force of strong conviction and passion- 
ate feeling. The individual man then becomes 
merged in the greatness of the theme ; but in gen- 
eral he plays with his subject like the skilful artist, 
rather than the poet, who seeks in lyrical verse the 
natural vent for his emotions. Rarely indeed do 
we lose sight of the poet himself in these Odes. 
This quality, while it is fatal to lyric poetry of the 
highest class, helps, however, to heighten the charm 
of the majority of them, especially those which 
are devoted to his friends, or which breathe the 
delight with which the contact with the ever fresh 
beauties of natural scenery inspired him. Into 
these he throws his whole heart, and in them we 
feel the fascination which made him beloved by 
those who came within the circle of his personal 
influence, and which makes him as it were the well 
known and intimaté friend of all to whom his writ- 
ings are a familiar study. 

Horace was not and could not have been a 
national poet. He wrote only for cultivated men, 
and under the shadow of a court. Beyond a very 
narrow circle his works could not have been read. 
The very language in which he wrote must have 
been unintelligible to the people, and he had none 
of those popular sympathies which inspire the lyrics 
of Burns or Béranger. The Roman populace of 
his time was perhaps as little likely to command 
his respect as any which the world has ever seen ; 
and there was no people, in the sense in which we 


22 LIFE OF HORACE. 


understand the word, to appeal to. And yet Hor- 
ace has many points in common with Burns. “ A 
man’s a man for a’ that,” in the whole vein of its 
sentiment is thoroughly Horatian. In their large 
and genial views of life they are closely akin; but 
the fiery glow of the peasant poet is subdued toa 
temperate heat in the gentler and physically less 
energetic nature of Horace. 

In his amatory verses the same distinction is visi- 
ble. Horace writes much about love; but he is 
never thoroughly in love. None of his erotic 
poems are vivified by those gushes of emotion 
which animate the love poetry of the poets we 
have named and of other modern song-writers. 
Never indeed was love less ideal or intense in a 
poet of unquestionable power. Horace is not m- 
sensible to feminine attractiveness. He had too 
much taste for that. Indeed no writer hits off with 
greater neatness the portrait 6f a beauty, or con- 
jures up more skilfully before his reader an image 
of seductive grace. But his tone is more that of a 
pleased spectator than of one who has loved deeply. 
Even m what may be assumed to be his earliest 
poems, the fire of genuine passion is wanting. Hor- 
ace’s ardour seems never to have risen above the 
transient flush of desire. At no period of his life, 
so far as can be inferred from his writings, was he 
a man to suffer from 


the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison flowers, and all the measureless ill. 


He was as much a stranger to the headlong pas- 


LIFE OF HORACE. 23 


sion of the sensualist, as to the trembling reverence 
of the devotee. Of all that wide realm of deep 
emotion and imaginative tenderness, of which oc- 
casional traces are to be found in the literature of 
antiquity, and with which modern poetry, from 
Dante to Tennyson, is familiar, no hint is to be 
found in the Odes of Horace. Parabilem amo 
Venerem facilemque is the Alpha and Omega of 
his personal creed. In his view, the favouring 
smiles of the fairest face were not worth the pain 
its owner’s caprices could inflict. Woman, as he 
knew her, was apt to be capricious. He had suf- 
fered from the fickleness of more than one mis- 
tress, but he was too honest not to feel that they 
had probably only forestalled him in inconstancy. 
Doubtless he had “sighed and looked, sighed and 
looked” at many a pair of fine eyes in vain, and 
found himself recalling to his fancy more often 
‘than philosopher should a rosy underlip, or “ the 
tresses of Neaera’s hair;” but if they slipped from 
his grasp, the pang, we may be tolerably sure, was 
transient. 


From these he escaped heart-free, with the least little touch 
of spleen. 


He seems to have known by experience just 
enough of the tender passion to write pretty verses 
about it, and to rally, not unsympathetically, such 
of his friends as had not escaped so lightly from its 
flame. The attempt to make out the Lydias and 
Lalages, the Lyces and Phrynes of his Odes as real 
objects of attachment is one of the many follies in 


24 LIFE OF HORACE. 


which his commentators have wasted much dreary 
labour. Like Béranger, Horace might, no doubt, 
have sung of himself in his youth, — 


J’avais 4 vingt ans une folle maitresse, 
Des francs amis, et l’amour de chansons. 


The bona Cinara of his Odes and Satires was no 
ideal personage ; and it may fairly be assumed that 
his many agreeable qualities had not been without 
their influence upon other beauties equally suscep- 
tible, if not equally generous. J/ilitavit non sine 
gloria. And even when he could count eight lus- 
tres, despite his own protest (Ode II. 4), his senses 
were probably not dead to the attractions of a fine 
ancle, or a pretty face, or to the fascination of a 
sweet smile, a musical voice, a pleasant wit, an 
agreeable temper, or graceful habits. But his pas- 
sions were too well controlled, and his love of ease 
too strong, to admit of the countless flirtations im- 
plied in the supposition that Glycera, Myrtale, and 
a score of others, were actual favourites of the 
bard. The Horace of the Satires and Epistles, the 
man Horace as he there lives for us, must be for- 
gotten before we can adopt such a conclusion. To 
sing of beauty has always been the poet’s privilege 
and delight; and to record the lover’s pains an 
easy and popular theme. Horace, the wit and 
friend of wits, fell naturally into this genial strain, 
and sang of love and beauty according to his fash- — 
ion. Very airy and playful and pleasant is that 
fashion, and, for his time, in the main compara- 


LIFE OF HORACE. 25 


tively pure and chaste; but we seek in vain for 
the tenderness, the negation of self, and the pathos, 
which are the soul of all true love poetry. “ His 
love ditties,” it has been well said, ‘are, as it were, 
like flowers, beautiful in form, and rich in hues, but 
without the scent that breathes to the heart.” It 
is certain that many of them are merely imitations 
of Greek originals; pretty cameos cut after the 
antique. 

Horace’s Satires and Epistles are less read, yet 
they are perhaps intrinsically more valuable than his 
lyric poetry. They are of very various merit, written 
at different periods of his life, and, although the 
order of their composition may be difficult to define 
with certainty, much may be inferred, even from 
the internal evidence of style and subject, as to the 
development of the poet’s genius. As reflecting 
“the age and body of the time,” they possess the 
highest historical value. Through them the modern 
scholar is able to form a clearer idea in all probability 
of the state of society in Rome in the Augustan age 
than of any other phase of social development in 
the history of nations. Mingling, as he did, freely 
with men of all ranks and passions, and himself 
untouched by the ambition of wealth or influence 
which absorbed them in the struggle of society, he 
enjoyed the best opportunities for observation, and he 
used them diligently. Horace’s observation of char- 
acter is subtle and exact, his knowledge of the heart 
is profound, his power of graphic delineation great. 
A genial humour plays over his verses, and a kindly 

9 


-” 


26 LIFE OF HORACE. 


wisdom dignifies them. Never were the maxims of 
social prudence and practical good sense inculcated 
in so pleasing a form as in the Epistles. The vein 
of his satire is delicate yet racy ; he keeps the in- 
tellect on the alert, and amuses the fancy while he 
rarely offends by indelicacy or outrages by coarse- 
ness. For fierceness of invective, or loftiness of 
moral tone, he is inferior to Juvenal ; but the vices 
of his time were less calculated to provoke the 
“‘saeva indignatio” of the satirist of a more recent 
date. He deals rather with the weakness and fol- 
lies than with the vices or crimes of mankind, and 
his appeals are directed to their judgment and prac- 
tical sense rather than to their conscience. Asa 
living and brilliant commentary on life, as a store- 
house of maxims of practical wisdom, couched in 
language the most apt and concise, as a picture of 
men and manners, which will be always fresh and 
always true, because they were true once, and 
because human nature will always reproduce itself 
under analogous circumstances, his Satires, and still 
more his Epistles, will have a permanent value for 
mankind. In these, as in his Odes, he inculcates 
what is fitting and decorous, and tends most to tran- 
quillity of mind and body, rather than the severe 
virtues of a high standard of moral purity. To live 
at peace with the world, to shun the extremes of 
avarice, luxury, and ambition, to outrage none of 
the laws of nature, to enjoy life wisely, and not to 
load it with cares which the lapse of a few brief years 
will demonstrate to be foolishness, is very nearly the 


LIFE OF HORACE. At 3 


sum of his philosophy. Of religion, as we under- 
stand it, he had little. Although himself little of 
a practical worshipper, — parcus deorum cultor et in- 
Srequens, — he respected the sincerity of others in 
their belief in the old gods. But, in common with 
the more vigorous intellects of the time, he had out- 
grown the effete creed of his countrymen. He was 
content to use it for poetical purposes, but he coul: 

not accept as matter of belief the mythology, abou. 
which the forms of the contemporary worship stili 
clustered. 

At no time very robust, Horace’s health appears 
to have declined for some years before his death. 
He was doomed to see some of his most valued 
friends drop into the grave before him. This to 
him, who gave to friendship the ardour which other 
men give to love, was the severest wound that time 
could bring. “ The shocks of Chance, the blows of 
Death” smote him heavily; and the failure of 
youth, and spirits, and health, in the inevitable de- 
cay of nature, saddened the thoughtful poet in his 
solitude, and tinged the gayest society with melan- 
choly. ‘The loss of friends, the brothers of his soul, 
of Virgil, Quinctilius, Tibullus, and others, and ul- 
timately of Mzcenas, without that hope of reunion 
which springs from the cheering faith which was 
soon afterwards to be revealed to the world, must 
have by degrees stripped life of most of its charms. 
Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes (Epist. II. 
ii. 55) is a cheerless reflection to all, but chiefly to 
him who has no assured hope beyond the present 


~~ 
28 LIFE OF HORACE. 


time. Mecenas’s health was a source of deep 
anxiety to him; and one of the most exquisite Odes 
(B. IL. 17), addressed to that valued friend, in an- 
swer to some outburst of despondency, while it ex- 
presses the depth of the poet’s regard, bears in it 
the tone of a man somewhat weary of the world : — 


% Ah! if untimely fate should snatch thee hence, 
Thee of my soul a part, 
Why should I linger on, with deaden’d sense, 
And ever-aching heart, 
A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine? 
No, no! One day beholds thy death and mine! 


“‘ Think not that I have sworn a bootless oath ! 
Yes, we shall go, shall go, 
Hand link’d in hand, whene’er thou leadest, both 
The last sad road below ! ” 


The prophecy seems to have been realized almost 
to the letter. The same year (A.U.C. 746, B.C. 8) 
witnessed the death of both Horace and Mecenas. 
The latter died in the middle of the year, bequeath- 
ing his friend, in almost his last words, to the care 
of Augustus: Horatii Flacci, ut mei, esto memor. 
On the 27th of November, when he was on the eve 
of completing his fifty-seventh year, Horace himself 
died, of an illness so sharp and sudden that he was 
unable to make his will in writing. He declared 
it verbally before witnesses, leaving to Augustus 
the little which he possessed. He was buried on 
the Esquiline Hill, near his patron and friend 
Meceuas. 

The fame of Horace was at once established. 


; 
7 


LIFE OF HORACE. 29 


Even in the days of Juvenal he shared with Virgil 


*the doubtful honour of being a school-book. -(Juve- 


nal, Sat. vii. 226.) That honour he still enjoys; but 


it is only by minds matured by experience and re- 


flection that Horace can be thoroughly appreciated. 
To them the depth of his observation and the reach 
of his good .sense are made daily more apparent ; 
and the verses, which charmed their fancy or de- 
lighted their ear in youth, became the counsellors 
of their manhood, or the mirror which focalizes for 
their old age the gathered wisdom of a lifetime. 
No writer is so often quoted, and simply because 
the thoughts of none are more pertinent to men’s 
“business and bosoms” in the concerns of every- 
day life, amid the jostle of a crowded and artificial 
state of society ; and because the glimpses of na- 
ture, in which his writings abound, come with the 
freshness of truth, alike to the jaded dweller in 
cities, and to those who can test them day by day 
in the presence of nature herself. 

There are no authentic busts or medallions of 
Horace, and his descriptions of himself are vague. 
He was short in stature; his eyes and hair were 
dark, but the latter was early silvered with gray. 
He suffered at one time from an affection of the 
eyes, and seems to have been by no means robust 
in constitution. His habits were temperate and 
frugal, as a rule, although he was far from insensi- 
ble to the charms of a good table and good wine, 
heightening and heightened by the zest of good 
company. But he seems to have had neither the 


30 LIFE OF HORACE. 


stomach nor the taste for habitual indulgence in the 
pleasures of the table. In youth he was hasty and - 
choleric, but placable ; and to the last he probably 
shared in some degree the irritability which he as- 
cribes to his class. At the same time, if his writings 
be any index to his mind, his temper was habitually 
sweet and well under control. Like most playful 
men, a tinge of melancholy coloured his life, if that 
is to be called melancholy which more properly is 
only that feeling of the incompleteness and insuffi- 
ciency of life for the desires of the soul, which 
with all thoughtful men must be habitual. Latterly 
he became corpulent, and sensitive to the severity 
of the seasons, and sought at Baiz and Tivoli the 
refreshment or shelter which his mountain retreat 
had ceased to yield to his delicate frame. 

The chronology of the poems of Horace has been 
the source of much critical controversy. ‘The ear- 
lier labors of: Bentley, Masson, Dacier, and Sana- 
don have been followed up in modern times by 
those of Passow, Orelli, Walckenaer, Weber, Grote 
fend, and Stallbaum abroad, and of Tate and Mil- 
man at home. The subject is of importance in its 
bearings on the poet’s biography ; and the general 
result of their investigations may be stated as fol- 
lows. The Satires and most of the Epodes were 
first in the order of composition, having been writ- 
ten between the years 713 and 725, after the return 
of Horace to Rome, and before the close of the 
civil wars consequent upon the defeat of Antony 
and his party. The two first books of Odes ap- 


LIFE OF HORACE. 31 


peared between this period and the year 730. 
Then followed the first book of Epistles. The 
third book of Odes appears to have been composed 
about the year 735, the Carmen Seculare in 737, and 
the fourth book of Odes between 737 and 741. 
The second book of Epistles may be assigned to 
the period between 741 and 746; and to the same 
period may be ascribed the composition of the 
Epistle to the Pisos. 

‘In the following translations the Odes have been 
retained in the order in which they appear in the 
common editions, without any attempt at chrono- 
logical arrangement. Any change might perplex 
the ordinary reader, and, for historical or other 
purposes, no student ‘will prosecute his researches 
in a translation. 


The object of the translator has been to convey 
to the mind of an English reader the impression, as 
nearly as may be, which the originals produce upon 
his own. The difficulties of such a task are endless. 
“It is impossible,” says Shelley, himself one of the 
most successful of translators, ‘‘ to represent in an- 
other language the melody of the versification ; 
even the volatile strength and delicacy of the ideas 
escape in the crucible of translation, and the reader 
is surprised to find a caput mortuum.” This is true 
in the case even of languages which bear an affinity 


32 LIFE OF HORACE. 


to our own, but especially true where Greek or 
Latin poetry are concerned. No competent trans- 
lator will satisfy himself, still less can he expect to 
satisfy others. It will always be easy for the critic 
to demonstrate that Horace is untranslatable. In 
a strict sense, this is the case with all poetry, es- 
pecially lyrical poetry; and no one is likely to 
be so thoroughly convinced of this, as he who has 
persevered to the end in an attempt to translate 
the Odes of Horace. Still what has been will be. 
The attempt, often made, will be as often renewed. 
Dulce periculum est. The very difficulty of the task 
makes it attractive. Lovers of the Venusian bard 
will go on from time to time striving to transfuse 
the charm of his manner into English measures ; 
and the noticeable versions of Mr. H. G. Robinson, 
Mr. Whyte Melville, Mr. F. W. Newman, and 
Lord Ravensworth, all published within the last 
few years, show that the production of a Horace, to 
meet the modern views of what a translation ought 
to be, is still a prevailing object of ambition amongst 
English scholars. 

The present version has grown up imperceptibly 
* during many years, having been nearly finished 
before the idea of a complete version occurred to 
the translator as a thing to be accomplished. The 
form of verse into which each Ode has been cast 
has been generally selected with a view to what 
might best reflect its prevailing tone. It has not 
always been possible, however, to follow this indi- 
cation, where, as frequently happens, either the 


LIFE OF HORACE. 33 


names of persons or places, often most intractable, 
but always important, must have been sacrificed, 
or a measure selected into which these could be 
interwoven. To be as literal and close as the dif- 
ference between the languages would admit has 
been the aim throughout. But there are occasions, 
as every scholar knows, where to be faithful to the 
letter is to be most unfaithful to the spirit of an 
author ; and where to be close is to be hopelessly 
prosaic. Phrases, nay, single words and names, full 
of poetical suggestiveness in one language, are bald, 
if not absolutely without significance, in another. 
Besides, even under the most skilful hands, a 
thought or sentiment must at times be expanded or 
condensed to meet the necessity of the stanza. 
The triumph of the translator is where this is 
effected without losing any of the significance, or 
clashing with the pervading sentiment of the origi- 
nal. Again, a point of great difficulty is the treat- 
ment of the lighter odes,—mere vers de societé, 
invested by the language for us with a certain 
stateliness, but which were probably regarded with 
a very different feeling by the small contemporary 
circle to which they were addressed. To catch the 
tone of these, to be light without being flippant, to 
be playful without being vulgar, demands a deli- 
cacy of touch which it is given to few to acquire, 
even in original composition, and which in transla- 
tion is all but unattainable. 

In a few instances where, for obvious reasons, a 
literal reproduction of the original was not desir- 

2 * Cc 


34 LIFE OF HORACE. 


able, as in the 25th Ode of the First, and the 10th 
Ode of the Fourth Books, and in occasional pas- 
sages elsewhere, the translator has not hesitated to 
make such deviations from the text as are required 
by the purer morals of the present day. For the 
same reason, the 8th and 12th Epodes have been 
altogether omitted. 








ODE I. 
TO MECENAS. 


M2cEnAS, sprung from monarchs old, 
Who dost my fortunes still uphold, 
My heart’s best friend, some men there are, 
Who joy to gather with the car 
Olympic dust; and whom the goal 
_ By hot wheeis clear’d, that round it roll, 
And noble palm, can elevate 
To gods, the lords of earth’s estate. 


One feels his breast with rapture throb, 
If the Quiritians’ fickle mob 
Raise him, ’mid brawl and civic roar, 
To honours doubled o’er and o’er ; 
Another if he store, and fill 
His private granaries, until 
Their teeming area contains 
The harvests of all Lybia’s plains. 


_ Him that delights afield to moil, 
Tilling his old paternal soil, 

You ne’er could tempt, by all the pelf 
Of golden Attalus himself, 

With Cyprian keel in fear to sweep 
The stormy-vext Myrtoan deep. 


The merchant, with affright aghast, 
When Africus with furious blast 
Lashes the Icarian waves to foam, 
Extols his quiet inland home ; 


38 


J ODE I. - TO MCENAS. 
But, safe in harbour, straight equips 
Anew his tempest-batter’d ships, 

By no disasters to be taught 
Contentment with a lowly lot. 


And there be some, we know, are fain 
Full cups of Massic old to drain, 
Nor scorn from the unbroken day 
To snatch an hour, their limbs to lay 
’Neath leafy arbutus, or dream 
Beside some lulling fountain’s stream. 


The camp makes many a heart beat high, 
The trumpet’s call, the clarion’s cry, 
And all the grim array of war, 
Which mothers’ fearful hearts abhor. 


Regardless of the wife, that weeps 
At home for him, the huntsman keeps 
Abroad through cold and tempest drear, 
If his staunch hounds have track’d the deer, 
Or by the meshes rent is seen, 
Where savage Marsian boar hath been. 


Me doth the ivy’s wreathed bough, 
Meet guerdon of the scholar’s brow, 
The compeer make of gods supreme ! ° 
Me the dim grove, the murmuring stream, 
And Nymphs that trip with Fauns along, 
Dissever from the vulgar throng ; 
If nor Euterpe hush her strain, 
Nor Polyhymnia disdain 
To strike for me her Lesbian lyre, 
And fill me with a poet’s fire. 
Give me but these, and rank me ’ mong 
The sacred bards of lyric song, 
I’ll soar beyond the lists of time, 
And strike the stars with head sublime. 


ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CESAR. 39 


ODE II. 
TO AUGUSTUS CHESAR. 


ENOvuGH, enough of snow and direful hail 
Hath Jove in anger shower’d upon the land, 
And launching havoc with his red right hand 

On tower and temple, made the city quail, — 


Made all the nations quail, lest Pyrrha’s age 
Should come again, with brood of monsters strange, 
When Proteus drove his ocean-herd to range 

The mountain tops in wondrous pilgrimage. 


The yellow Tiber, with its waves hurl’d back 
From the Etruscan coast, have we beheld 
Threaten the monuments of regal eld, 

And Vesta’s fane, with universal wrack. 


Rising in ire, to avenge his Ilia’s plaint, 
He bursts his bounds, and, stirr’d through all his 
deeps, 
O’er his left bank the uxorious river sweeps, 
Though unapproved by Jove, and spurns restraint. 


Thinn’d by their parents’ crimes, our youth shall hear 
How Roman against Roman bared the blade, 
Which the fierce Persian fitlier low had laid, 

Shall hear how kin met kin in conflict drear. 


£e 


40 ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CESAR. — 


What god shall we, to save the state from doom, 
Importune ; by what pray’r shall virgins pure 
Their Vesta’s ear so long regardless lure, 

To listen to their quired hymns? ‘To whom 


Will Jove assign the office and the might 
To expiate our guilt? Oh to our pray’, 
Augur Apollo, here at length repair, 

Veiling in clouds thy shoulders ivory-white ! 


Or, laughing Erycina, round whose head 
Boy Cupid flits and Mirth on airy wing ; 
Or, on thine outcast sons if thou dost fling 
Some kindly glances, thou, our founder dread, 


Sated, alas! with war’s too lengthen’d sport ! 
Who joy’st in gleaming helms, and battle’s roar, 
And, foot to foot with foemen dyed in gore, 
The Marsian’s flashing eye, and fateful port ! 


Or else do thou, sweet Maia’s winged child, 
Doffing the God, descend to earth, and wear 
The form of youth, Cesar’s avenger, there 

While thou abid’st, submitting to be styled! 


Long, long to heav’n be thy return delay’d, 
Long, long may’st thou well pleased beside us stay, 
And no fell air waft thee from earth away 

At our dark crimes indignant and dismay’d ! 


Rather lead mighty triumphs here as now, 
Joy to be call’d our Prince and Father here, 
Nor let the Median unchastised career 

Where Romans sway, — our leader, Cesar, thou! 


ODE IJI. TO VIRGIL’S SHIP. 41 


ODE III. 


TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VIRGIL WAS ABOUT 
.TO SAIL FOR GREECE. 


May the great goddess-queen of Cyprus isle, 

And those bright cressets, brothers twin of Helen, 
And he that rules the winds propitious smile, 

All save mild zephyr in their caverns quelling, 
Thy course, O bark, directing so, that thou 

May’st waft in safety to Athene’s shore 
My Virgil, to thy care intrusted now, 

And to its love my soul’s dear half restore ! 


In oak or triple brass his breast was mail’d, 
Who first committed to the ruthless deep 
His fragile skiff, nor inly shrank and quail’d, 
To hear the headlong south-wind fiercely sweep, 
With northern blasts to wrestle and to rave, 
Nor fear’d to face the tristful Hyades, 
And the wild tyrant of the Western wave, 
That lifts, or calms at will the restless seas. 


What form of death could daunt his soul, who view’d 
Ocean’s dread shapes, nor turn’d his eyes away, 
Its surging waves, and with disaster strew’d 
Thy fated rocks, Acroceraunia ? 
Vainly hath Jove in wisdom land from land 
By seas dissever’d wild and tempest-toss’d, 
If vessels bound, despite his high command, 
O’er waters purposed never to be cross’d. 


42 ODE III. TO VIRGIL’S SHIP.’ 


Presumptuous man, in insolence of soul, 
Sweeps to his aim through sacrilege and crime; 
Heaven’s fire for us the bold Prometheus stole 
By fraud unhallow’d in the olden time ; 

Then wasting agues, hectic fevers smote 
The earth, and hosts of new-born terrors spread ; 
And Death, till then forgetful and remote, 
Quicken’d his slow, inevitable tread ! 


On wings not given for mortal wearing durst 
Vain Deedalus to cleave the void of air; 
Through fateful Acheron Alcides burst : 
Naught is too arduous for man to dare. 
in our unbounded folly we aspire 
To heaven itself; and such our guilty pride, 
We will not let great Jove forget his ire, 
Nor lay his vengeful thunderbolts aside. 


ODE IV. TO SESTIUS. 43 


ODT V. 
‘TO SESTIUS. 


Now biting Winter fled, sweet Spring is come in- 
stead, 
And barks long stranded high and dry put out 
again from shore ; 
Now the ox forsakes his byre, and the husbandman 
his fire, 
And daisy-dappled meadows bloom where winter 
frosts lay hoar. 


By Cytherea led, while the moon shines overhead, 
The Nymphs and Graces, hand-in-hand, with 
alternating feet, 
Shake the ground, while swinking Vulcan strikes 
the sparkles fierce and red 
From the forges of the Cyclops, dun with smoke 
and lurid heat. 


”T is the time with myrtle green to bind our glisten- 
ing locks, 
Or with flowers, wherein the loosen’d earth her- 
self hath newly dress’d, 
And to sacrifice to Faunus in some glade amidst 
the rocks 
A yearling lamb, or else a kid, if such delight 
him best. 


44 ODE IV. TO SESTIUS. 


Death comes alike to all, — to the monarch’s lordly 
hall 
Or the hovel of the beggar, and his summons 
none shall stay. 
O Sestius, happy Sestius! use the moments as they 
pass ; 
Far-reaching hopes are not for us, the creatures 
of a day. 


Full soon shall night enshroud thee in the Manes’ 
phantom crowd, 
And the bare and narrow mansion of Pluto close 
thee in ; 
And thou shalt not banish care by the ruddy wine- 
cup there, 
Nor woo the gentle Lycidas, whom all are mad 
to win. 


ODE V. TO PYRRHA. 45 


ODE V. 
TO PYRRHA. 


Say, Pyrrha, say, what slender boy, 

With locks all dropping balm, on roses laid, 
Doth now with thee in pleasant grotto toy ? 

For whom dost thou thine amber tresses braid, 


Array’d with simple elegance ? 
Alas! alas! How oft shall he deplore 
The alter’d gods, and thy perfidious glance, 
And, new to danger, shrink, when sea waves roar, 


Chafed by the surly winds, who now 
Enjoyeth thee, all golden as thou art; 
And hopes, fond ea through every change, that 
thou 
Wilt welcome tim as fondly to thy heart ! 


Nor doth not know, how shift the while 
The fairest gales beneath the sunniest skies ; 
Unhappy he, who, weeting not thy guile, 
Basks in the sunshine of thy flattering eyes! 


My votive tablet, duly set 
Against the temple’ s wall, doth witness keep, 
That I, whilere, my vestments dank and wet 
Hung at the shrine of Him that rules the deep. 


q 


46 


ODE VI. TO AGRIPPA. 


ODE VI. 
TO AGRIPPA. 


By Varius shall thy prowess be 
In strains Mzonic chaunted, 

The victories by land and sea, 

Our gallant troops, led on by thee, 
Have won with swords undaunted. 


Such themes, Agrippa, never hath 
My lyre essay’d, nor bold 
Pelides’ unrelenting wrath, 
Nor artfullest Ulysses’ path 
O’er oceans manifold ; 


Nor woes of Pelops’ fated line; 
Such flights too soaring are ! 

Nor doth my bashful Muse incline, 

Great Cesar’s eulogies and thine 
With its thin notes to mar. 


Who, who shall sing, with accents just 
Mars’ adamantine mail, 

Or Merion, grimed with Trojan dust, 

Or him who, strong in Pallas’ trust, 
Made even gods to-quail ? 


Heart-whole, or pierced by Cupid’s sting, 
In careless mirthfulness, 

Of banquets we, and maidens sing, 

With nails cut closely skirmishing, 
When lovers hotly press. 


ODE VII. TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS. 


010 iia ad Bt 
TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS. 


Some will laud fair Mytilene, — 
* Rhodes, where many wonders be, — 
Some great Ephesus, or Corinth 
Watered by its double sea; 
Thebes renown’d for Bacchus, Delphi 
Famous for Apollo’s shrine, 
Others praise Thessalian Tempe, 
And its thousand charms divine ; 
Some the towers of spotless Pallas 
Chaunt, nor ask another theme, 
Thence to pluck an olive garland, 
All their pride and all their dream. - 
Many a bard, in Juno’s honor, 
Makes the burden of his lyre 
Rich Mycene, grassy Argos, 
Famous for its steeds of’ fire. 


Me nor patient Lacedemon, 
Nor Larissa’s fertile plain, 
Like Albunea’s echoing fountain 
All my inmost heart hath ta’en. 
Give me Anio’s headlong torrent, 
And Tiburnus’ grove and hills, 
And its orchards sparkling dewy 
With a thousand wimpling rills. 


A7 


48 


ODE VII. TO’ MUNATIUS PLANCUS. 


As the sunny southwind often 
Sweeps the louring clouds away, 
Nor with showers unceasing ever 
Loads the long and dreary day, 
Plancus, so do thou remember 
Still to cheer with balmy wine 
All the care and grief and travail 
Of this toilworn life of thine ; 
Whether in the throng’d camp, gleaming 
With a thousand spears, or laid 
On the turf beneath the umbrage 
Of thy loved Tiburtine glade. 


Teucer, though an outcast hunted 
From his native Salamis, 
Hunted by a father’s anger, 
Natheless — as the legend is— 
On his forehead wet with revel 
First a wreath of poplar bound, 
Then his comrades thus accosted, 
As they sadly stood around. 
‘‘ Wheresoever Fortune, kinder 
Than my sire, our voyage bends, 
Thither shall we go together, 
O my comrades, brothers, friends ! 
Teucer for your leader, — marshall’d 
Under Teucer’s guiding star, 
What shall stay, or what shall daunt us? 
Hence, then, craven fears, afar ! 
For I hold Apollo’s promise, 
That in other climes a new 
Salamis shall rise around us, 
Fairer, nobler to the view ! 
Now, ye brave hearts, that have weather’d 
Many a sorer strait with me, 
Chase your cares with wine, — to-morrow 
We shall plough the mighty sea !” 


ODE VIII. TO LYDIA. 49 


ODE VIII. 
TO LYDIA. 


Wry, Lydia, why, 
I pray, by all the gods above, 

Art so resolved that Sybaris hoc die, 
And all for love ? 


Why doth he shun 
The Campus Martius’ sultry glare ? 

He that once reck’d of neither dust nor sun, 
Why rides he there, 


First of the brave, 
Taming the Gallic steed no more ? 

Why doth he shrink from Tiber’s yellow wave ? 
Why thus abhor 


The wrestlers’ oil, 
As ’t were from viper’s tongue distill’d ? 
Why do his arms no livid bruises soil, 
He, once so skill’d, 


The dise or dart 
Far, far beyond the mark to hurl ? 

And tell me, tell me, in what nook apart, 
Like baby irl, 


Lurks the poor boy, 
Veiling his manhood, as did Thetis’ son, 
To ’scape war’s bloody clang, while fated Troy 
Was yet undone ? 
3 D 


ODE VIII. TO LYDIA. 


THE SAME PARAPHRASED. 


Nay, Lydia, ’t is too bad, it is, 

Thus to inflame poor Sybaris. 

Be merciful, you puss, or, sooth, 

You ll soon make worms’-meat of the youth. 
He ’s finished, floor’d, and all agree, 
Was never man so changed as he ! . 
Before his eyes by love were seal’ d, 

He headed every hunting field, 

In horsemanship could all eclipse, 

And was the very best of whips. 

With skulls he was a match for Clasper, 
His bat at cricket was a rasper, 

And ne’er was eye or hand so quick 
With gloves, or foil, or single stick; 

A very stag to run or jump, — 

In short, he was a thorough trump. 

But now, what way his time he spends, 
Heaven only knows! He’s cut his friends, 
And, to complete his ruin quicker, 

He neither smokes nor takes his liquor. 
He’s never seen, and now, they say. 

He’s fairly bolted, stolen away! . 
Where have you hid him, Lydia, where 2 
You have him with you I could swear, 
And, in your cast-off gown array’d, 

He minces as your lady’s maid. 


ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS. S61 


ODE Ix. 
TO THALIARCHUS. 


Loox out, my Thaliarchus, round ! 
Soracte’s crest is white with snow, 
The drooping branches sweep the ground, 
And, fast in icy fetters bound, 
The streams have ceased to flow. 


Pile up fresh logs upon the hearth, 
To thaw the nipping cold, 

And forth from Sabine jar, to wing 

Our mirth, the ruddy vine-juice bring 
Four mellowing summers old. 


Leave to the gods all else ; when free 
They set the surly winds, 

To grapple on the yeasty sea 

In headlong strife, the cypress-tree, 
The old ash respite finds. 


Let not to-morrow’s change or chance 
Perplex thee, but as gain 
Count each new day! Let beauty’s glance 
Engage thee, and the merry dance, 
Nor deem such pleasures vain ! 


Gloom is for age. Young hearts should glow 
With fancies bright and free, 


52 


ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS. 


Should court the crowded walk, the show, 
And at dim eve love’s murmurs low 
Beneath the trysting tree ; 


The laugh from the sly corner, where 
Our girl is hiding fast, 

The struggle for the lock of hair, 

The half well pleased, half angry air, 
The yielded kiss at last. 


ODE X. TO MERCURY. 53 


ODE X. 
TO MERCURY. 


Mercurivs, Atlas’ grandchild eloquent, 

Who didst to gentle ways man’s primal race 

By language mould, and their uncouth limbs lent 
The gymnast’s grace, 


Herald of mighty Jove, and all the gods, 

Lord of the curved lyre, who canst at will 

Filch for thy sport, whate’er may be the odds, 
Ill hymn thee still! 


When with loud threats he charged thee to forego 

The kine, thy impish craft from him had wiled, 

Even while he spoke, of quiver reft and bow, 
Apollo smiled. 


Quitting his halls, by thee rich Priam led 

Stole past the watchfires round Troy’s leaguer’d wall, 

And through the Grecian camp in safety sped, 
Unseen of all. 


Thou guid’st to bliss the spirits of the just, 

Driving the phantoms with thy golden rod, 

In heaven and hell beloved and held in trust 
By every god! 


54 ODE XI. TO LEUCONOE. 


ODE AE 
TO LEUCONOE. 


Asx not of fate to show ye, — 
Such lore is not for man, — 
What limits, Leuconoe, *) : 
Shall round life’s little span. 
Both thou and I 
Must quickly die! 
Content thee, then, nor madly hope 
To wrest a false assurance from Chaldean horoscope. 


Far nobler, better were it, 
Whate’er may be in store, 
With soul serene to bear it.; 
If winters many more 
Jove spare for thee, 
Or this shall be 
The last, that now with sullen roar 
Scatters the Tuscan surge in foam upon the rock- 
bound shore. 


* 


Be wise, your spirit firing 
With cups of temper’d wine, 
And hopes afar aspiring 
In compass brief confine. 
Use all life’s powers, 
The envious hours 
Fly as we talk; then live to-day, 
Nor fondly to to-morrow trust more than you must 
and may. 


* A license, allowable. it is hoped, has been taken in lengthen= 
ing the penultimate syllable of this lady’s beautiful name. 


ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. \ 5S 


ODE XII. 
TO AUGUSTUS. 


Wuart man, what hero, Clio, wilt thou sing, 
With lyre or fluting shrill ? 

What god, whose name shall sportive echo ring 
On Helicon’s umbrageous hill, 

Or Pindus’ steepy crest, or Hemus ever chill ? 


Whose groves reel’d after Orpheus, and his song, 
Who by its spell could stay 
The rushing sweep of streams and tempests strong, 
And by his tuneful harpings sway 
The listening oaks to move where’er he led the 
way. 


What shall I sing before his praise, who reigns 
The world’s great sire, and guides 
Of men and gods the pleasures and the pains, 
Who rules the land and ocean’s tides, 
And change of seasons meet for the vast earth pro- 
vides ? 


From whom springs none that mightier is than he, 
Nor other can we trace, 
Of equal might, or second in degree ; 
Yet Pallas fills the honour’d place 
Next to her sire, upraised o’er all the Olympian 
race. 


56 ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. 
<= 


Nor, Bacchus, bold in battle, shall thy fame 
My numbers fail to show, 
And, virgin huntress of the woods, thy name 
In answering strains shall flow, : : 
And thine, Apollo, thine, god of the unerring 
bow ! 


Alcides, too, and Leda’s sons I’ll sound 
In echoing song afar 
For wrestling this, that for the race renown’d, 
Soon as whose clear effulgent star 
Upon the shipman gleams, amid the tempest’s 
war, 


Down from the rocks subsides the weltering spray, 
The winds in zephyrs creep, 
The clouds disperse, that veil’d the gladsome day, 
And on the wild and wasteful deep 
The threat’ning waves — such power is theirs — are 
lull’d to sleep. 


What next shall fill the burden of my strain, 
I wist not to decide ; 

Or Romulus, or Numa’s tranquil reign, 
Or Tarquin towering in his pride, 


Or him of Utica, the brave, that nobly died. 


Next Regulus, and the Scauri, Paulus too, 
That flung his soul away, 
His mighty soul, when Punic foes o’erthrew 
Our strength on Canne’s fatal day, 
With grateful pride I’ll chaunt im my undying 
lay ; 


Fabricius too, and Curius of the locks 
Unkempt, — Camillus, — all 
Nurtured to warfare by the daily shocks 
Of stern privation, in the small 
Paternal farm and cot that made of wealth their all. 


ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. 57 


With growth occult, as shoots the vigorous tree, 
Marcellus’ fame doth grow ; 

The star of Julius shines resplendently, 
Kclipsing all the starry row, 

As mid the lesser fires bright Luna’s lamp doth glow. 


Thou sire and guardian of all human kind, 
Saturnian Jove, to thee 

The care of mighty Cesar was assign’d 
By the o’erruling fates, and he 

Next to thyself in power our sovereign lord shall be. 


Whether he quell the Parthian threatening spoil 
To Latium, and lead 
The foe, that would insult our natal soil, 
In spotless triumph, — or the Mede 
Subdue, and other foes, the sweltering East doth 
breed ; 


Next under thee, his righteous hand shall make 
The world his rule obey ; “ 

Olympus thou with thy dread car shalt nliake: 
Thou shalt thy vengeful bolts array 

Against the groves, wherein foul orgies shrink from 


day. 


OBE XIII. TO LYDIA. 


ODE XIIl. 
TO LYDIA. 


LyptA, when so oft the charms 
Of Telephus you bid me note, 
Taunt me with his snowy arms, 
Rosy cheek, and shapely throat, 
Within my breast I feel the fires 
Of wild and desperate desires. 


Then reels my brain, then on my cheek 
The shifting colour comes and goes, 
And tears, that flow unbidden, speak 
The torture of my inward throes, 
The fierce unrest, the deathless flame, 
That slowly macerates my frame. 


O agony ! to trace where he’ 

Has smutch’d thy shoulders ivory-white 
Amid his tipsy revelry ; 

Or where, in trance of fierce delight, 
Upon thy lips the frenzied boy 
Has left the records of his joy. 


Hope not such love can last for aye, 
(But thou art deaf to words of mine !) 
Such selfish love, as ruthlessly 
Could wound those kisses all divine, 
Which Venus steeps in sweets intense 
Of her own nectar’s quintessence. 


ODE XIII. TO LYDIA. 59 


O, trebly blest, and blest forever, 
Are they whom true affection binds, 
In whom no doubts nor janglings sever 
The union of their constant minds; 
But life in blended current flows, 
Serene and sunny to the close! 


ODE XIV. TO THE REPUBLIC. 


€ 


ODE XIV. 
TO THE REPUBLIC. 


O BARK, fresh waves shall hurry thee, 
Yet once again, far out.to sea; 
Beware, beware ; and boldly seize _ 
The port, where thou may’st ride at ease ! 
Dost thou not see, thy side is shorn 
Of all its oars, thy mainmast torn, 
And hear thy lanyards moan and shriek, 
And all thy straining timbers creak, 
Too frail to meet the surge around, . 
Though plank to plank with cables bound. 
Thy sails are rent ; nor gods hast thou, 
When danger threats, to hear thy vow; 
Although thou art a Pontic pine, 
A woodland child of noble line, 
Vain, vain amid the tempest’s rage 
Such vaunted name and lineage ! 
No trust hath fearful marinere 
In gilded prow; so thou beware!’ 
Unless it be thy doom to form 
The sport and pastime of the storm. 

O thou, that erewhile wert to me 
A heavy-sad anxiety, 
And now my fond ambition art, 
The care that chiefly fills my heart, 
O, be advised, and shun the seas, 
That wash the shining Cyclades! 


ODE XV. THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS. 61 


e- 


ODE XV. 
THE PROPHECY OF .NEREUS. 


As the treacherous shepherd bore over the deep 
His hostess, fair Helena, Nereus arose, 

Hush’d the war of the winds for a season to sleep, 
And thus sang the doom of retributive woes. 


“ Thou bearest her home with an omen of dread, 
Whom Greece shall reclaim, with her myriads 
vow'd 
To tear, by the sword, thy false mate from thy bed, 
And crush Priam’s empire, the ancient, the proud. 


“ Horse and man, how they labour! What deaths 
shall o’erwhelm, : 
And ail for thy crime, the Dardanians in night ! 
See Pallas preparing her gis and helm, 
Her chariot, and all the fierce frenzy of fight ! 


“ Go, trim as thou wilt, boy, thy loose flowing curls, 
- Go, vaunt thee, that Venus shall shield thee from 
wrong, 
And, laid with thy lute ’midst a bevy of girls, 
Troll thy measures effeminate all the day long. 


“ Ay, hide an’ thou may’st in the couch of thy lust 
From the death-dealing spear, and the arrows of 
Crete, 


62 ODE XV. THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS. 


From the roar of the battle, its carnage, its dust, 
And Ajax pursuing, remorseless and fleet! 


“Yet in gore thy adulterous locks shall be roll’d, 
Though late be thy doom. Lo, the scourge of thy 
race | 
Laertiades! Dost thou not see him? Behold! 
And Pylian Nestor !— And see, on thy trace 


“ Rushes Teucer of Salamis, dauntless and fell, 
And Sthenelus, skilful in combat, nor less 

In ruling the war-steed expert to excel, 
And close on thy track, too, shall Merion press. 


“Lo, Tydides, surpassing his father in might, 
Athirst for thy lifeblood, with furious cheer 

Is hunting thee out through the thick of the fight, 
While before him thou fly’st, like a timorous deer, 


* Who, espying a wolf on the brow of the hill 
Flies far from the pasture, with heart-heaving 
pants ; 
Is it thus that thy leman shall see thee fulfil 
The promise of all thy presumptuous vaunts ? 


“ The wrath of Achilles shall stay for a while 
The downfall of Ilion, and Phrygia’s dames, — 
Yet a few winters more, and her funeral pile 
In ashes shall fall ’midst Achaian flames!” 


ODE XVI. TO TYNDARIS. 63 


ODE XVI. 
TO TYNDARIS. 


O DAUGHTER, in beauty more exquisite still 
Than a mother, whose beauty we all must ad- 
mire, 
My scurrilous verses destroy, how you will, 
Deep drown them in ocean, or quench them in 
fire ! 


Dindymené herself, nor the Pythian, when 
- He convulses his priests with the fury prophetic, 
Nor Bacchus, nor Corybants, clashing again 
And again their wild cymbals, such fervour phre- 
netic 


Can move as fell rage; which no terrors can tame, 
Neither Norican glaive, nor the ocean bestrew’d 
With wreck and disaster, nor merciless flame, 
Nor the thunders of Jove in his vengefullest mood. 


*Tis the curse of our birth; for Prometheus, they 


say, 

_ Compell’d from all beasts some particular part 

To select for his work, to our primitive clay 
Imparted the lion’s impetuous heart. 


Rage drew on Thyestes the vengeance of heaven, 
Through rage have been levell’d the loftiest halls 
And cities high-famous, and ploughshares been 
driven 
By insolent enemies over their walls. 


64 ODE XVI. TO TYNDARIS. 


O, stifle the fiend! In the pleasant spring time 
Of my youth he enkindled my breast with his 
flame i 
And headlong I dash’d into petulant rhyme, 
Which now in my manhood I think on with 
shame. 


But a kindlier mood hath my passion supplanted, 
And music more gentle shall flow from my lute, 
Would’st thou make me thy friend,— my vile libels 
recanted, — 
And smile with reciprocal love on my suit ! 


ODE XVII. TO TYNDARIS. 65 


ODE XVII. 


TO TYNDARIS. 


_ My own sweet Lucretillis ofttime can lure . 
From his native Lyceus kind Faunus the fleet, 
To watch o’er my flocks, and to keep them secure 
From summer’s fierce winds, and its rains, and its 
heat. 


Then the mates of a lord of too pungent a fragrance 
Securely through brake and o’er precipice climb, 

And crop, as they wander in happiest vagrance, 
The arbutus green, and the sweet-scented thyme. 


Nor murderous wolf, nor green snake may assail 
My innocent kidlings, dear Tyndaris, when 
His pipings resound through Ustica’s low vale, 
Till each moss’d rock in music makes answer 
again. 


The muse is still dear to the gods, and they 
shield 
Me their dutiful bard; with a bounty divine 
They have bless’d me with all that the country can 
yield 
Then come, and whatever I have shall be thine ! 


Here screened from the dog-star, in valley retired, 
Shalt thou sing that old song thou canst warble 
so well, 
Which tells how one passion Penelope fired, 
And charm’d fickle Circe herself by its spell. 


E 


66 ODE XVII. TO TYNDARIS. 


Here cups shalt thou sip, ‘neath the broad-epre nding 
shade, 
Of the innocent vintage of Lesbos at ease, 
No fumes of hot ire shall our banquet invade, 
Or mar that sweet festival under the trees. 


And fear not, lest Cyrus, that jealous young bear, 
On thy poor little self his rude fingers should set, 
Should pluck from thy bright locks the chaplet, and 
tear 
Thy dress, that ne’er harm’d him nor any one yet. © 


ODE XVIII. TO VARUS. 67 


ODE XVIII. 
TO VARUS. 


Let the vine, dearest Varus, the vine be the first 
Of all trees to be planted, of all to be nursed, 

On thy well-shelter’d acres, round Catilus’ walls, 
Where the sun on the green slopes of Tivoli falls ! 
For to him who ne’er moistens his lip with the grape 
Life’s every demand wears a terrible shape, 

And wine, and wine only has magic to scare 
Despondency’s gloom or the torments of care. 
Who’s he that, with wine’s joyous fumes in his brain, 
Of the travails of war, or of want will complain, 
Nor rather, sire Bacchus, thy eulogies chant, 

Or thine, Venus, thine, ever beautiful, vaunt ? 


Yet, that none may abuse the good gift, and 
o’erpass 

The innocent mirth of a temperate glass, 
A warning is set in the wine-kindled strife, 
Where the Centaurs and Lapithe grappled for life ; 
In the madmen of Thrace, too, a warning is set, 
Who, lost in their Bacchanal frenzy, forget 
The bounds that dissever the right from the wrong, 
And sweep on the tide of their passions along. 


Bright god of the vine, I never will share 
In orgies so vile and. unholy, nor tear 


68 ODE XVIII. TO VARUS. 


The clusters of various foliage away, 

That keep thy blest mysteries veil’d from the day. 

Then clash not the cymbals, and wind not the horn, 
Dread sounds, of whose maddening accents are born 
Blind Self-love, and Vanity lifting on high 

Its feather-brain’d head, as ’t would strike at the sky, 
And Frankness, transparent as crystal, that shows 

In its babbling incontinence all tliat it knows. 


ODE XIX. TO GLYCERA. 69 


ODE XIX. 


TO GLYCERA. 


THE ruthless mother of wild desires, 
And Theban Semele’s fervent son, 

And wanton idlesse have kindled fires 
Within me, I dream’d I had long outrun. 

I am madden’d by Glycera’s beauty’s blaze, — 
The marble of Paros is pale beside it — 

By her pretty, provoking, and petulant ways, 
And face too dazzling for eye to ’bide it. 


Into me rushing, hath Venus quite 
Forsaken her Cyprus, nor lets me chant 
The Scyths and the Parthians, dauntless in flight, 
Nor aught that to Love is irrelevant. 
Hither, boys, turf of the freshest bring, 
Vervain, and incense, and wine unstinted ! 
The goddess less fiercely my heart shall sting, 
When the victim’s gore hath her altar tinted. 


ODE XX. TO MACENAS. 


ODE XX. 


TO M#CENAS. 


Ovr common Sabine wine shall be 

The only drink I’ll give to thee, 
In modest goblets too ; 

*T was stored in crock of Grecian delf, 

Dear knight Mecenas, by myself, 
That very day, when through 

The theatre thy plaudits rang, 

And sportive echo caught the clang, 
And answer’d from the banks 

Of thine own dear paternal stream, 

Whilst Vatican renew’d the theme 
Of homage and of thanks ! 

Old Cecuban, the very best, 

And juice in vats Calenian press’d 
You drink at home, I know: 

My cups no choice Falernian fills, 

Nor unto them do Formia’s hills 
Impart a temper’d glow. 


ODE XXI. DIANA AND APOLLO. 71 


ODE XXI. 
IN HONOUR OF DIANA AND APOLLO. 


YE tender virgins fair, 
To great Diana sing, 
Ye boys, to Cynthius of the unshorn hair, 
Your dulcet anthems bring, 
And let Latona mingle with your theme, 
That dearer is than all to Jove, Heaven’s lord su- 
preme ! 


Her praises sing, ye maids, 
Who doth in streams delight, 
In whispering groves, and intertangled glades, 
On Algidus’ cool height, 
Or Erymanthus with its dusky pines, 
-Or where with verdure bright the leafy Cragus shines. 


Ye boys, in numbers meet, 
Fair Tempe’s praises chant, 
Delos, that was Apollo’s natal seat, 
And loved peculiar haunt ; 
Sing, too, his quiver with its golden gleams, 
And lyre, his brother’s gift, that from his shoulder 
beams ! 


Moved by your prayers he will 
Banish distressful war, 
Famine, and pestilence, and their trains of ill 
From our loved Rome afar, 
And from great Cesar, scattering their blight, 
The Persian’s pride to quell, or Britain’s chainless 
might. 


72 ODE XXII. TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. 


ODE XXII. 
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. 


Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure 

Needeth nor javelin nor bow of Moor, 

Nor arrows tipp’d with venom deadly-sure, 
Loading his quiver ; 


Whether o’er Afric’s burning sands he rides, 

Or frosty Caucasus’ bleak mountain-sides, 

Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides, 
-That storied river. 


For as I stray’d along the Sabine wood, 

Singing my Lalage in careless mood, 

Lo, all at once a wolf before me stood, 
Then turn’d and fled : 


Creature so huge did warlike Daunia ne’er 

Engender in her forests’ wildest lair, 

Not Juba’s land, parch’d nurse of lions, e’er 
Such monster bred. 


Place me, where no life-laden summer breeze 

Freshens the meads, or murmurs ’mongst the trees, 

Where clouds, and blighting tempests ever freeze 
From year to year ; 


Place me, where neighbouring sunbeams fiercely 
broil, ; 
A weary waste of scorch’d and homeless soil, 
To me my Lalage’s sweet voice and smile 
Would still be dear! 


ODE XXIII. TO CHLOE. 


: CREP OX UT TT. 


TO CHLOE. 


Nay, hear me, dearest Chloe, pray! 
You shun me like a timid fawn, 
That seeks its mother all the day 
By forest brake and upland lawn, 
Of every passing breeze afraid, 
And leaf that twitters in the glade. 


Let but the wind with sudden rush 
The whispers of the wood awake, 
Or lizard green disturb the hush, 
Quick-darting through the grassy brake, 
The foolish frightened thing will start, 
With trembling knees and beating heart. 


But I am neither lion fell, 
No tiger grim to work you woe; 
I love you, sweet one, much too well, 
Then cling not to your mother so, 
But to a lover’s tender arms 
Confide your ripe and rosy charms. 


73 


74 ODE XXIV. TO VIRGIL. 


* 


ODE XXIV. 
TO .VIRGIL. 


Wry should we stem the tears that needs must flow, 
Why blush, that they should freely flow and long ? 
To think of that dear head in death laid low ? 
Do thou inspire my melancholy song, 
Melpomene, in whom the Muses’ sire 
Join’d with a liquid voice the mastery of the lyre ! 


And hath the sleep, that knows no waking morn, 
Closed o’er Quinctilius, our Quinctilius dear ? 

Where shall be found the man of woman born 
That in desert might be esteem’d his peer, — 

So simply meek, and yet so sternly just, 

Of faith so pure, and all so absolute of trust ? 


He sank into his rest, bewept of many, 
And but the good and noble wept for him, 
But dearer cause thou, Virgil, hadst than any, 
With friendship’s tears thy friendless eyes to dim! 
Alas, alas! Not to such woful end 
Didst thou unto the gods thy pray’rs unceasing send! 


What though thou modulate the tuneful shell 
With defter skill than Orpheus of old Thrace, 
When deftliest he played, and with its spell 
Moved all the listening forest from its place, 
Yet never, never can thy art avail 
To pe life’s glowing tide back to the phantom 
pale, 


ODE XXIV. TO VIRGIL. 75 


Whom with his black inexorable wand 
Hermes, austere and pitiless as fate, 
Hath forced to join the dark and spectral band 
In their sad journey to the Stygian gate. 
*T is hard, great heav’ns, how hard! But to endure 
Alleviates the pang we may nor crush nor cure ! 


ODE XxXV. TO LYDIA. 


ODE XXYV. 
“TO LYDIA. 


SwaALns in numbers 
Break your slumbers, 
Saucy Lydia, now but seldom, 
Ay, though at your casement nightly, 
Tapping loudly, tapping lightly, 
By the dozen once ye held them. 


Ever turning, 
Night and morning, 
Swung your door upon its hinges ; 
Now, from dawn till evening’s closing, 
Lone and desolate reposing, 
Not a soul its rest infringes. 


Serenaders, 
Sweet invaders, 

Scanter grow, and daily scanter, 
Singing, ‘* Lydia, art thou sleeping ? 
Lonely watch thy love is keeping! 

Wake, O wake, thou dear enchanter |” 


Lorn and faded, 
You, as they did, 

Woo, and in your turn are slighted ; 
Worn and torn by passion’s fret, 
You, the pitiless coquette, 

Waste by fires yourself have lighted. 


ODE XXV. TO LYDIA. 17 


Late relenting, 
Left lamenting, — 
“ Withered leaves strew wintry brooks! 
Ivy garlands greenly darkling, 
Myrtles brown with dew-drops sparkling, 
Best beseem youth’s glowing looks!” 


78 ODF XXVI. TO HIS MUSE. 


ODE XXVI. 
TO HIS MUSE. 


BELOVED by and loving the Muses 
I fling all my sorrow and care 
To the wind, that wherever it chooses 
The troublesome freight it may bear. 
I care not — not I — not a stiver, 
Who in Scythia frozen and drear 
’*Neath the scourge of a tyrant may shiver, 
Or who keeps Tiridates in fear. 


O thou in pure springs who delightest, 
Twine flowers of the sunniest glow, 
Twine, gentle Pimplea, the brightest 
Of wreaths for my Lamia’s brow. 
Without thee unskill’d are my numbers; 
Then thou and thy sisterly choir 
Wake for him the rare music that slumbers 
Unknown in the Lesbian lyre! 


ODE XXVII. THE CAROUSAL. 79 


ODE XXVIII. 
THE CAROUSAL. 


Hop! hold! ’T is for Thracian madmen to fight 
With wine-cups, that only were made for delight. 
*T is barbarous — brutal! I beg of you all, 
Disgrace not our banquet with bloodshed and brawl! 


The Median scimetar, why should it shine, 

Where the merry lamps sparkle and glance in the 
wine ? 

*T is out of all rule! Friends, your places resume, 

And let us have order once more in the room ! 


If I am to join you in pledging a beaker 

Of this stout Falernian, choicest of liquor, 
Megilla’s fair brother must say, from what eyes 
Flew the shaft, sweetly fatal, that causes his sighs. 


How —dumb! Then I drink not a drop. Never 
blush, ; 

Whoever the fair one may be, man! Tush, tush! 

She ‘ll do your taste credit, I’m certain — for yours 

Was always select in its little amours. 


- Don’t be frightened! We’re all upon honour, you 
know, 

So out with your tale! Gracious powers! Is it so? 

Poor fellow ! your lot has gone sadly amiss, 

When you fell into such a Charybdis as this! 


80 ODE XXVIII. THE CAROUSAL. 


What witch, what magician, with drinks and with 
charms, 

What god can effect your release from her harms ? 

So fettered, scarce Pegasus’ self, were he near you, 

From the fangs of this triple Chimera might clear 
you 


ODE XXVIII. ARCHYTAS. 81 


ODE XXVIII. 
ARCHYTAS. 


SAILOR. 


TueEE, O Archytas, who hast scann’d 
The wonders of the earth by sea and land, 
The lack of some few grains 
Of scatter’d dust detains 
A shivering phantom here upon Matinum’s strand. 
And it avails thee nothing, that thy soul, 
Death’s sure-devoted prey, 
Soar’d to the regions of eternal day, 
Where wheeling spheres in silvery brightness roll. 


ARCHYTAS. 


What then! E’en Pelops’ sire, the guest 
Of gods, to Orcus sank, by death oppress’d, 
And old Tithonus, too, 
Though heavenly air he drew, 
And Minos stern, who shared the secrets of Jove’s 
breast. 
There, too, Panthoides, once more immured, 
Roams, though his spirit’s pride 
All save this fading flesh to death denied, 
By his old Trojan shield deceitfully assured. 


’ And he, even thou wilt grant me, was 
Not meanly versed in truth and nature’s laws. 

But for us all doth stay 
One night, and death’s dark way 
4% F 


82 ODE XXVIII. ARCHYTAS. 


Must needs be trodden.once, howe’er we pause. 
The Furies some to Mars’ grim sport consign, 

The hungry waves devour 

The shipman, young and old drop hour by hour, 
No single head is spared by ruthless Proserpine. 


Me, too, the headlong gust, 
That dogs Orion, ’neath the billows thrust. 
But, prithee, seaman, shed 
On my unburied head . 
And limbs with gentle hand some grains of drifting 
dust ! 
So may the storm that threats the western deep 
Turn all its wrath away, 
To smite the forests of Venusia, 
And thou thy course secure o’er the mild ocean keep | 


So may from every hand 
Wealth rain on thee by righteous Jove’s command! 
And Neptune, who doth bear 
Tarentum in his care, 
Bring thy rich-laden argosy to land! 
Deny me this, the common tribute due, 
And races to be born 
Of thy son’s sons in after years forlorn, 
Though guiltless of thy crime, thy heartless scorn 
shall rue ! 


Nor shall thyself go free, 
For Fate’s vicissitudes shall follow thee, 
Its laws, that slight for slight, 
And good for good requite ! 
Not unavenged my bootless pray’r shall be ; 
Nor victim ever expiate thy guilt. 
O, then, though speed thou must — 
It asks brief tarrying — thrice with kindly dust 
Bestrew ae corpse, and then press onward as thou 
wilt 


ODE XXIX. TO ICCIUS. 83 


ODE XXIX. 
TO ICCIUS. 


So, Iccius, thou hast hankerings 
For swart Arabia’s golden treasures, 
And for her still unconquer’d kings 
Art marshalling war’s deadly measures, 
And forging fetters meant to tame 
The insulting Mede that is our terror and our shame ? 


Say, what barbarian virgin fair 
Shall wait on thee, that slew her lover, 
What princely boy, with perfumed hair, 
Thy cup-bearer, shall round thee hover, 
School’d by his sire, with fatal craft 
To wing, all vainly now, the unerring Seric shaft ? 


Up mountains steep may glide the brooks, 
And Tiber to its sources roam, 
When thou canst change thy noble books 
Cull’d far and near, and learnéd home, 
For armour dipp’d in Ebro’s wave, 
Thou who to all our hopes far nobler promise gave } 


84 ODE XXX. TO VENUS. 


ODE XXX. 
TO VENUS. 


O VENvs, queen of Gnidos Paphos fair, 
Leave thy beloved Cyprus for a while, 

And shrine thee in that bower of beauty, where 
With incense large woos Glycera thy smile! 


O come, and with thee bring thy glowing boy, 
The Graces all, with kirtles floating free, 

Youth, that without thee knows but little joy, 
The jocund Nymphs, and blithesome Mercury! 


ODE XXXI. THE POET’S PRAYER. 85 


ODE XXXI. 
THE POET’S PRAYER. 


Wuat asks the poet, who adores 
Apollo’s virgin shrine, 

What asks he, as he freely pours 
The consecrating wine ? 


Not the rich grain, that waves along 
Sardinia’s fertile land, 

Nor the unnumber’d herds, that throng 
Calabria’s sultry strand ; 


Not gold, nor ivory’s snowy gleam, 
The spoil of far Cathay, 

Nor fields, which Liris, quiet stream, 
Gnaws silently away. 


Let fortune’s favour’d sons the vine 
Of fair Campania hold ; 

The merchant quaff the rarest wine 
From cups of gleaming gold ; 


For to the gods the man is dear 
Who scathelessly can brave, 

Three times or more in every year, 
The wild Atlantic wave. 


86 


ODE XXXI. THE POET’S PRAYER. 


Let olives, endive, mallows light 
Be all my fare; and health 

Give thou, Latoé, so I might 
Enjoy my present wealth ! 


Give me but these, I ask no more, 
These, and a mind entire — 
And old age, not unhonour’d, nor 

Unsolaced by the lyre! 


ODE XXXII. TO HIS LYRE. $7 


ODE XXXII. 
TO HIS LYRE. 


Ir e’er with thee, my lyre, beneath the shade 
I’ve sported, carolling some idle lay, 
Destined mayhap not all at once to fade, 
Aid me to sing a master-song to-day, 
In strains, the Lesbian’s lyre was foremost to essay ; 


Who, though in battle brave among the brave, 
Yet, even amidst the camp’s tumultuous roar, 
Or when his bark, long toss’d upon the wave, 
Lay anchor’d safe upon the oozy shore, 
Did hymns to Bacchus and the golden Muses pour. 


And Venus, and that source of many sighs, 

The Boy, who from her side is parted ne’er, 
And Lycus famed for his black lustrous eyes, 

And for the glory of his deep dark hair, 
Rang in his full-toned verse along the charmed air. 


O, ’midst Apollo’s glories chief of all, 

Thou shell, that ever art a welcome guest, 
In sovereign Jove’s imperial banquet-hall, 

Thou, labour’s balm, and bringer of sweet rest, 
Aid him that doth on thee with due devotion call! . 


88 ODE XXXIII. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 


ODE XXXIII. 
TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 


Nay, Albius, a truce to this sighing and grieving! 
Is Glycera worth all this tempest of woe ? 

Why flatter her, lachrymose elegies weaving, 
Because she is false for a youthfuller beau ? 


There’s Lycoris, the maid with the small rounded 
forehead, 
For Cyrus is wasting by inches away, 
Whilst for Pholoé he, with a passion as torrid, 
Consumes, and to him she ’Il have nothing to say. 


The she-goats, in fact, might be sooner expected 
Apulia’s wolves for their partners to take, 

Than a girl so divine to be ever connected 
With such an abandoned and pitiful rake. 


Such caprices hath Venus, who, rarely propitious, 
Delights in her fetters of iron to bind 

Those pairs whom she sees, with a pleasure malicious, 
Unmatched both in fortune, and figure, and mind. 


I myself, woo’d by one that was truly a jewel, 
In thraldom was held, which I cheerfully bore, 
By that common chit, Myrtale, though she was cruel 
As waves that indent the Calabrian shore. 


ODE XXXIV. THE POET’S CONFESSION. 89 


ODE XXXIV. 
- THE POET’S CONFESSION. 


Unto the gods my vows were scant 

And few, whilst I profess’d the cant 
Of philosophic lore, 

But now I back my sails perforce, 

Fain to retrace the beaten course, 
I had contemned before. 


For Jove, who with his forkéd levin 

Is wont to rend the louring heaven, 
Of late with hurtlings loud 

His thunder-pacing steeds did urge, 

And winged car along the verge 
Of skies without a cloud; 


Whereat the huge earth reel’d with fear, 
The rivers, Styx, the portal drear 

Of Teenarus abhorr’d, 
While distant Atlas caught the sound, 
And quiver’d to its farthest. bound. 

The world’s great god and lord 


Can change the lofty to the low, 
The mighty ones of earth o’erthrow, 
Advancing the obscure ; 
Fate wrests the crown from lordly brow 
On his to plant it, who but now 
Was poorest of the poor. 


90 


ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 


ODE XXXYV. 
TO FORTUNE. 


O PLEASANT Antium’s goddess queen, 
Whose presence hath avail 

Mortals to lift from mean estate, 

Or change triumphal hymns elate 
To notes of funeral wail; 


Thee with heart-anxious prayer invokes 
The rustic at the plough, 
Thee, mistress of the ocean-wave, 
Whoe’er Carpathia’s surges brave 
With frail Bithynian prow ; 


Thee Scythia’s ever roving hordes, 
And Dacians rude revere, 
Cities, and tribes, Rome’s dauntless band, 
Barbaric monarchs’ mothers, and 
Empurpled tyrants fear ; 


Lest thou shouldst crush their pillar’d state 
Beneath thy whelming foot, . 

Lest madding crowds with shrill alarms 

Pealing the cry, “ To arms! To arms!” 
Should seated thrones uproot. 


Before thee evermore doth Fate 
Stalk phantom-like, and bear 

In brazen hand huge nails dispread ; 

And wedges grim, and molten lead, 
And iron clamps are there. 


ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 91. 


Thee Hope attend, and Truth rare-seen, 
In vestments snowy-dyed, 

Nor quit thee, though ih changed array 

Thou turn with angry frown away 
From halls of stately pride. 


But the unfaithful harlot herd 
Slink back. Howe’er they cling, 
Once to the lees the wine-vat drain, 
And shrinking from the yoke of pain, 
These summer friends take wing! 


Our Cesar’s way to Britain guard 
Earth’s farthest boundary, 

And make our youthful hosts thy care, 

Who terror to the East shall bear, 
And the far Indian sea ! 


By brothers’ blows, by brothers’ blood, 
Our souls are gash’d and stain’d. 

Alas! what horror have we fled ? 

What crime not wrought ? When hath the dread 
Of heav’n our youth restrain’d ? 


Where is the altar unprofaned 
By them? O may we see 
Thy hand new-whet their blunted swords, 
To smite Arabia’s tented hordes, 
And the Massagetz! 


ODE XXXVI. TO NUMIDA. 


ODE XXXVI. 
TO NUMIDA. 


SING, comrades, sing, let incense burn, 
And blood of votive heifer flow 
Unto the gods, to whom we owe 

Our Numida’s return ! 


Warm greetings many wait him here, 
From farthest Spain restored, but none 
From him return so warm hath won, 

As Lamia’s, chiefly dear. 


His boyhood’s friend, in school and play, * 
Together manhood’s gown they donn’d ; 
Then mark with white, all days beyond, 

This most auspicious day. 


Bid wine flow fast without control, 
And let the dancers’ merry feet 
The ground in Saliar manner beat, 

And Bassus drain the bowl, 


Unbreathed, or own the mastering power 
Of Damalis; and roses fair, 
And parsley’s vivid green be there, 
And lilies of an hour ! 


On Damalis shall fond looks be bent, 
But sooner shall the ivy be 
Torn from its wedded oak, than she 
Be from her new love rent. 


ODE XXXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 93 


ODE XXX VII. 
TO HIS COMPANIONS. 


Now, comrades, fill each goblet to the brim, 
Now, now with bounding footsteps strike the 
ground, 
With costliest offerings every fane be crown’d, 
Laud we the gods with thousand-voicéd hymn ! 


Jt had been impious, till this glad hour 

To bid our grandsires’ Ceecuban to flow, 

While Egypt’s queen was listed to o’erthrow 
Rome’s empire, Rome itself, — home, temple, tower ! 


O, doting dream ! — She, with her eunuch train, 
Effeminate and vile, to conquer us ! 
Drunk with success, and madly venturous, 
Swift ruin quell’d the fever of her brain. 


Her fleet, save one poor bark, in flames and wrack, 
The frenzied fumes, by Egypt’s vintage bred, 
Were turn’d to real terrors as she fled, 

Fled from our shores with Cesar on her track. 


As hawk pursues the dove, as o’er the plains 

_ Of snow-wrapt Scythia, like the driving wind, 
The huntsman tracks the hare, he swept behind, 

To fix that fair and fatal pest in chains. 


But her’s no spirit was to perish meanly ; 
A woman, yet not womanishly weak, 
She ran her galley to no sheltering creek, 
Nor quail’d before the sword, but met it queenly. 


7 


94 ODE XXXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 


So to her lonely-palace-halls she came, 
With eye serene their desolation view’d, 
And with firm hand the angry aspies woo’d 
To dart their deadliest venom through her frame. 


Then with a prideful smile she sank ; for she 
Had robb’d Rome’s galleys of their royal prize, 
Queen to the last, and ne’er in humbled guise 

To swell a triumph’s haughty pageantry ! 


ODE XXXVIII. TO HIS CUP-BEARER. 


ODE XXXVIII. 
TO HIS CUP-BEARER. 


PERSIA’s pomp, my boy, I hate, 
No coronals of flowerets rare 
For me on bark of linden plait, 
Nor seek thou to discover where 
The lush rose lingers late. 


With unpretending myrtle twine 
Naught else! It fits your brows, 
Attending me, it graces mine, 
As I in happy ease carouse 
Beneath the thick-leaved vine. 


95 





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ODE I. TO ASINIUS POLLIO, 99 


ODE I. 
TO ASINIUS POLLIO. 


Tue civil broils that date 

Back from Metellus’ luckless consulate, 
The causes of the strife, 

Its vices, with fresh seeds of turmoil rife, 
The turns of fertune’s tide, 

The leagues of chiefs to direful ends allied, 
The arms of Romans wet 

With brothers’ blood, not expiated yet, 
These are thy chosen theme, 

An enterprise that doth with peril teem, 
For everywhere thy tread 

On ashes falls, o’er lull’d volcanoes thinly spread ! 


Mute for some little time 

Must be the Muse of tragedy sublime 
Within our theatres; anon, 

The task of chronicling our story done, 
Thy noble bent pursue, 

And the Cecropian buskin don anew, 
Pollio, thou shield unstain’d 

Of woful souls, that are of guilt arraign’d, 
On whose persuasive tongue 

The senate oft in deep debate hath hung, 
Whose fame for laurels won 

In fields Dalmatian shall through farthest ages run! 


100 ODE I. TO ASINIUS POLLIO. 


And now our ears you pierce 
With clarions shrill, and trumpets’ threatenings — 
fierce, 
Now flashing arms affright 
Horses and riders, scattering both in flight ; 
Now do I seem to hear 
The shouting of the mighty leaders near, 
And see them strike and thrust, 
Begrimed with not unhonourable dust ; 
And all earth own control, 
All, all save only Cato’s unrelenting soul ! 


_ duno, and whosoe’er 

Among the gods made Afric’s sons their care, 
On that same soil, which they, 

Of vengeance foiled, had turned from in dismay, 
Unto Jugurtha’s shade 

His victor’s grandsons as an offering paid. 
Where is the plain, that by 

Its mounds sepulchral doth not testify 
To many an impious fray, 

Where Latian blood made fat the yielding clay, 
And to fell havoe’s sound 

Peal’d from the west to Media’s farthest bound ? 
What bays, what rivers are 

By ills unvisited of woful war ? 
What oceans by the tide 

Of slaughter rolling red have not been dyed ? 
Where shall be found the shore, 

Is not incarnadined by Roman gore? 


But, froward Muse, refrain, 
Affect not thou the elegiac strain ! 
With lighter touch essay 
In Dionzan cave with me some sprightlier lay! 


ODE II. TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 


ODE Il. 
TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 


Nor gold, nor silver, buried low 
Within the grudging earth, 
With lustre doth or beauty glow, 
’T is light to these gives birth. 
This truth, Sallustius, thou dost make 
Thy law, thou foe to pelf, 
Unless from temperate use it take 
A sheen beyond itself; 


Such use as Proculeius taught ; 
Pre-eminently known 

For all a father’s loving thought 
Unto his brothers shown, 

Through distant ages shall his name 
With note triumphant ring, 

Borne on from clime to clime by fame 
On ever-soaring wing. 


Subdue the lust for gold, and thine 
Will be an ampler reign, 

Than if thy kingdom should combine 
Far Lybia with Spain ; 

A Pens spirit to o’ercome 

better, than to seize 

The solely sovereign masterdom 

Of both the Carthages. 


101 


102 


ODE II. TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 


That scourge of man, the dropsy fell, 
By self-indulgence nurst, 

Grows worse and worse, nor can expel 
The still increasing thirst, 

Unless the cause, which bred the bale, 
Js routed from the veins, 

And from the body’s tissues pale 
The watery languor drains. 


Wisdom, who doth all issues test 
By worth and worth alone, 

Scorns to pronounce Phraates blest, 
Replaced on Cyrus’ throne ; 


From vulgar tongues, that swell the roar 


Of clamour differing wide, 
It teaches them to deal no more 
In phrases misapplied. 


For only he is king indeed, 
And may securely wear 

The diadem, and, nobler meed, 
The laurel gar land fair, 

Who, even where piles of treasure lie, 
Preserves an even mind, 

And passing them without a sigh, 
Cares not to look behind. 


: 


ODE III. TO DELLIUS. 103 


ODE III. 
TO DELLIUS, 


LET not the frowns of fate 
Disquiet thee, my friend, 
Nor, when she smiles on thee, do thou, elate 
With vaunting thoughts, ascend 
Beyond the limits of becoming mirth, 
For, Dellius, thou must die, become aclod of earth! 


Whether thy days go down 
In gloom, and dull regrets, 
Or, shunning life’s vain ‘struggle for renown, 
Its fever and its fr ets, 
Stretch’d on the grass, with old Falernian wine, 
Thou giv’st the thoughtless hours a rapture all divine. 


Where the tall spreading pine, 
And white-leaved poplar grow, 
And mingling their broad boughs i in leafy twine, 
A orateful : shadow throw, 
Where runs the wimpling brook, its sumb’rous tune 
Still mumuring, as it runs, to the ‘hush’d ear of noon ; : 


There wine, there perfumes bring, 
Bring garlands of the rose, 
Fair and too short-lived daughter of the spring, 
While youth’s bright current flows 
Within thy teins, — ere yet hath come the hour, 
When the dread sisters three shall clutch thee in 
their power. 


104 ODE III. TO DELLIUS. 


Thy woods, thy treasured pride, 
Thy mansion’s pleasant seat, 
Thy lawns washed by the Tiber’s yellow tide, 
Each favourite retreat, 
Thou must leave all, — all, and thine heir shall run 
In riot through the wealth thy years of toil have won. 


It recks not, whether thou 
Be opulent, and trace 
Thy birth from kings, or bear upon thy brow 
Stamp of a beggar’s race ; 
Be what thou wilt, full surely must thou fall, 
For Orcus, ruthless king, swoops equally on all. 


Yes, all are hurrying fast 
To the one common bourne; 
Sooner or later will the lot at last 
Drop from the fatal urn, 
Which sends thee hence in the grim Stygian bark, 
To dwell forevermore in cheerless realms and dark. 


ODE VI. TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS. 105 


ODE IV. 
TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS. 


Nay, Xanthias, my friend, never blush, man—no, no! 
Why should you not love yotr own maid, if you 
lease ? 
Briseis of old, with her bosom of snow, 
Brought the haughty Achilles himself to his knees, 


By his captive, Tecmessa, was Telamon’s son, 
Stout Ajax, to willing captivity tamed ; 

Atrides, in triumph, was wholly undone, 
With love for the slave of his war-spear inflamed, 


In the hot hour of triumph, when quell’d by the spear 
Of Pelides, in heaps the barbarians lay ; 

And Troy, with her Hector no longer to fear, 
To the war-wearied Greeks fell an easier prey. 


For aught that you know, now, fair Phyllis may be 
The shoot of some highly respectable stem ; 
Nay, she counts, I’ll be sworn, a few kings in her 
tree : 
And laments the lost acres once lorded by them. 


Never think that a creature so exquisite grew 
In the haunts where but vice and dishonour are 
known, ; 
Nor deem that a girl so unselfish, so true, 
Had a mother ’t would shame thee to take for 
thine own. 
5* 


106 ODE IV. TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS. 


I extol with free heart, and with fancy as free, 
Her sweet face, fine ancles, and tapering arms. 
How! Jealous ? Nay, trust an old fellow like me, 
Who can feel, but not follow, where loveliness 
charms. 


ODE VY. TO A FRIEND. 107 


on 8 0 pa a 
TO A FRIEND. 


HAVE patience! She’s plainly too tender, you see, 
The yoke on her delicate shoulders to bear, 
So young as she is, fit she never could be 
His task with the gentlest yoke-fellow to share, 
Or brook the assault of the ponderous bull, 
Rushing headlong the fire of his passion to cool. 


At present your heifer finds all her delight 
In wandering o’er the green meadows at will, 
In cooling her sides, when the sun is at height ; 
In the iciest pools of some mountain-fed rill, 
Or ’mid the dank osier-beds bounding in play 
With the young calves, as sportive and skittish as 
they. 


For unripe grapes to long is mere folly ; soon, too, 
Many-tinted Autumnus with purple will dye 
Thy clusters that now wear so livid a hue ; 
And so after thee, soon, her glances will fly, 
For merciless Time to her count wilkassign 
The swift speeding years, as she takes them from 
thine. 


And then will thy Lalage long for a lord, 
Nor shrink from the secrets of conjugal joy ; 
By thee she will be, too, more fondly adored, 
Than Pholoé’s self, or than Chloris the coy, 
Her beautiful shoulders resplendently white 
As the moon, when it silvers the ocean by night 


108 ODE V. TO A FRIEND. 


Or as Gnidian Gyges, whom were you to place 
In the midst of a bevy of sunny-brow’d girls, 
So boyish, so girlish at once is his face, 
So silken the flow of his clustering curls, 
*T would puzzle the skilfullest judge to declare, 
If Gyges or they were more maidenly fair. 


ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS. 109 


ODE VI. 
TO SEPTIMIUS. 


SEPTIMIUS, that wouldst, I know, 

With me to distant Gades go, 

And visit the Cantabrian fell, 

Whom all our triumphs cannot quell, 

And even the sands barbarian brave, 
Where ceaseless seethes the Moorish wave ; 


May Tibur, that delightful haunt, 
Rear’d by an Argive emigrant, 
The tranquil haven be, I pray, 
For my old age to wear away, 

O, may it be the final bourne 

To one with war and travel worn ! 


But should the cruel Fates decree, 

That this, my friend, shall never be, 
Then to Galesus, river sweet 

To skin-clad flocks, will I retreat, 

And those rich meads, where sway of yore 
Laconian Phalanthus bore. 


In all the world no spot there is, 
That wears for me a smile like this, 
The honey of whose thymy fields 
May vie with what Hymettus yields, 
Where berries clustering every slope 
May with Venafrum’s greenest cope. 


110 ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS. 


There Jove accords a lengthened spring, 
And winters wanting winter’s sting, 

And sunny Aulon’s ‘broad incline 

Such mettle puts into the vine, 

Its clusters need not envy those, 

Which fiery Falernum grows. 


Thyself and me that spot invites, 

Those pleasant fields, those sunny heights ; 
And there, to life’s last moments true, 
Wilt thou with some fond tears bedew — 
The last sad tribute love can lend — 

The ashes of thy poet friend. 


ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS. 111 


ODE VII. 


TO POMPEIUS VARUS. 


DEAR comrade, in the days when thou and I 
With Brutus took the field, his perils bore, 
Who hath restored thee, freely as of yore, 

To thy home gods, and loved Italian sky, 


Pompey, who wert the first my heart to share ; 
With whom full oft I’ve sped the lingering day 
Quaffing bright wine, as in our tents we lay, 

With Syrian spikenard on our glistening hair ? 


With thee I shared Philippi’s headlong flight, 
My shield behind me left, which was not well, 
When all that brave array was broke, and fell 

In the vile dust full many a towering wight. 


But me, poor trembler, swift Mercurius bore, 
Wrapp’d in a cloud, through all the hostile din, 
Whilst war’s tumultuous eddies, closing in, 

Swept thee away into the strife once more. 


Then pay to Jove the feasts, that are his fee, 
And stretch at ease these war-worn limbs of thine 
Beneath my laurel’s shade ; nor spare the wine 
Which I have treasured through long years for thee. 


112 ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS. 


Pour till it touch the shining goblet’s rim 
Care-drowning Massic: let rich ointments flow 
From amplest conchs ! Nomeasure we shall know ! 

What! shall we wreaths of oozy parsley trim, 


Or simple myrtle ? Whom will Venus send 
To rule our revel? Wild my draughts shall be 
As Thracian Bacchanals’, for ’t is sweet to me, 
To lose my wits, when I regain my friend. 


ODE VIII. TO BARINE. 113 


ODE VII. 
TO BARINE. 


IF e’er, in vengeance for thy faithlessness, 

Heaven had but made thy charms one charm the less, 

Blacken’d one tooth, or tarnish’d one bright nail, 

_ Then I, Barine, might believe thy tale. 

But soon as thou hast laid all kinds of vows 

And plighted oaths on those perfidious brows, 

Thy beauty heightens into rarer dyes, ~~ 

And all our young men haunt thy steps with fever- 
ish eyes. 


It profits thee, fair mischief, thus to spurn 

The deep vows plighted by thy mother’s urn, 

By all the silent stars that gem the night, 

And by the gods, whom death may never blight. 
Venus herself doth smile to hear thee swear, 

Smile the sweet nymphs beneath their sunny hair ; 
And Cupid, unrelenting boy, doth smile, 

Pointing on gory stone his burning shafts the while. 


To thee our youth’s best flower in homage kneels, 
New slaves bend daily at thy chariot-wheels ; 
And they, who oft have sworn to haunt no more 
Thy fatal home, still linger as before. 
Mothers all dread thee for their boys, and old 
Fond fathers fear thy havoc with their gold ; 
The bane art thou of every new-made bride, 
Lest thy soft air should waft her husband from her 

side. 

H 


ODE IX. TO VALGIUS. 


ODE IX. 
TO VALGIUS. 


Not always from the clouds are rains 
Descending on the oozy plains, 

Not always o’er the Caspian deep 

Do gusts of angry tempest sweep, 

Nor month on month, the long year through, 
Dear Valgius, valued friend and true, 
Is frost’s benumbing mantle round 
The high lands of Armenia wound ; 
Not always groan Garganus’ oaks 
Before the northwind’s furious strokes, 
Nor is the ash-tree always seen 

Stript of its garniture of green ; 

Yet thou alway in strains forlorn 

Thy Mystes dead dost fondly mourn, 
Lamenting still at Hesper’s rise, 

And when the rapid sun he flies. 


Remember, friend, that sage old man, 
Whose years were thrice our common span, 
Did not through all their lengthened tale 
His loved Antilochus bewail : 

Nor did his parents, lonely left, 
Of their still budding darling reft, 
Nor Phrygian sisters evermore 
The slaughtered Troilus deplore. 


ODE IX. TO VALGIUS. 115 


Forbear, then, longer to complain, 
Renounce this enervating strain, 
And rather let us, thou and I, 
Combine to sing in measures high 
The trophies newly won by great 
Augustus Cesar for the state ; 
Niphates’ icy peak, the proud 
Euphrates, added to the crowd 
Of nations, that confess our power, 
A humbler river from this hour, 
And the Gelonians forced to rein 
» Their steeds within a bounded plain. 


ODE X. TO LICINIUS. 


ODE X. 
TO LICINIUS. 


Ir thou wouldst live secure and free, 

Thou wilt not keep far out at BEA; 
Licinius, evermore ; 

Nor, fearful of the gales that sweep 

The ocean wide, too closely creep 
Along the treacherous shore. 


_The man, who with a soul serene 

Doth cultivate the golden mean, 
Escapes alike from all 

The squalor of a sordid cot, 

_ And from the jealousies begot 

By wealth in lordly hall. 


The mighty pine is ever most 
By wild winds sway’d about and toss’d, 
With most disastrous crash 
Fall high- -topp’ ‘d towers, and ever, where 
The mountain’s summit points in air, 
Do bolted lightnings flash. 


When fortune frowns, a well-train’d mind 
Will hope for change; when she is kind, 
A change no less will fear: 
If,haggard winters o’er the land 
By Jove are spread, at his command 
In time they disappear. 


ODE X. TO LICINIUS.” 117 


Though now they may, be sure of this, 
Things will not always go amiss ; 
Not always bends in ire 
Apollo his dread bow, but takes 
The lyre and from her trance awakes 
The Muse with touch of fire. 


Though sorrows strike, and comrades shrink, 
Yet never let your spirits sink, 
But to yourself be true ; 
So wisely, when yourself you find 
Scudding before too fair a wind, 
Take in a reef or two. 


118 ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. 


ODE XI. 
TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. 


Wuat the warlike Cantabrian or Scyth may design, 
Dear Quintius Hirpinus, ne’er stay to divine, 
With the broad Adriatic ’twixt them and yourself, 
You surely may lay all your fears on the shelf. 


And fret not your soul with uneasy desires 

For the wants of a life, which but little requires; 

Youth and beauty fade fast, and age, sapless and 
hoar 

Tastes of love and the sleep that comes lightly no 
more. 


Spring flowers bloom not always fresh, fragrant, and 

bright, 
The moon beams not always full-orb’d on the night; 
Then wherefore should you, who are mortal, outwear 
Your soul with a profitless burden of care ? 


Say, why should we not, flung at ease ‘neath this 
pine, 

Or a plane-tree’s broad umbrage, quaff gayly our 
wine, 

While the odours of Syrian nard, and the rose 

Breathe sweet from locks tipp’d, and just tipp’d with 
Time’s snows. 


ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. 119 


TT is Bacchus, great Bacchus, alone has the art 

To drive away cares, that are eating the heart. 

What boy, then, shall best in the brook’s deepest 
ool 

Our cups of thé fiery Falernian cool ? 


And who from her home shall fair Lydé seduce, 
And bring to our revel that charming recluse? - 
Bid her haste with her ivory lyre to the spot, 
Tying up her brown hair in a plain Spartan knot. 


120 ODE XII. TO MACENAS. 


ODE XII. 
TO MAECENAS. 


Bip me not sing to my nerveless string 
The wars of Numantia long and bloody, 
Nor Hannibal dread, nor the ocean’s bed 
With the gore of our Punic foemen ruddy; 


Nor the Lapithe fierce, nor Hyleus flush’d 
With wine, nor the earth-born brood ‘Titanic, 
Whom the death-dealing hand of Alcides crush’d, 
Though they smote the Saturnian halls with panic. 


And thou, my Mecenas, shalt fitlier tell 
The battles of Cesar in stateliest story, 
Tell of kings, who defied us with menaces fell, 
Led on through our streets in the triumph’s glory. 


My muse to Licymnia alone replies, 
To her warbling voice, that divinely sways thee, 
To the gleam of her flashing and lustrous eyes, 
And true heart that passion for passion repays thee. 


Ah, well doth the roundel beseem her charms, 
Sparkling her wit, and, with loveliest vestals, 
Most worthy is she to enlace her arms 
In the dances of Dian’s hilarious festals.- 


ODE XII. TO MACENAS. 121 


Would you, friend, for Phrygia’s hoarded gold, 
Or all that Achezmenes self possesses, 

Or e’en for what Araby’s coffers hold, 
Barter one lock of her clustering tresses, 


While she bends down her throat to your burning 
kiss, 
Or, fondly cruel, the joy denies you, 
She ’d have you snatch, or at times the bliss 
Herself will snatch, and with joy surprise you ? 


122 ODE XIII. TO THE TREE BY WHOSE FALL 


ODE Alit: 


TO THE TREE BY WHOSE FALL HIS LIFE 
WAS ENDANGERED. 


WHATW’ER his station in the land, 
In evil hour he planted thee, 
And with a sacrilegious hand 
He nursed, and trained thee up to be 
The bane of his succeeding race, 
And of our hamlet the disgrace. 


He strangled, ay, and with a zest, 

His very father, and at dead 
Of night stole in upon his guest, 

And stabb’d him sleeping in his bed; 
Brew’d Colchian poisons in his time, 
And practised every sort of crime. 


All this he must have done — or could — 
I’m sure, — the wretch, that stuck thee down, 
Thou miserable stump of wood, 
To topple on thy master’s crown, 
Who ne’er designed thee any harm, 
Here on my own, my favourite farm. 


No mortal due provision makes 
’Gainst ills which any hour may fall; 
The Carthaginian sailor quakes 
To think of a Levantine squall, 
But feels no terror for the fate, 
That elsewhere may his bark await. 


HIS LIFE WAS ENDANGERED. 123 
” 


Our soldiers dread the arrows sped 
By Parthians shooting as they flee ; 

And in their turn the Parthians dread 
The chains and keeps of Italy ; 

But death will tear, as now it tears, 

Whole nations down at unawares. 


How nearly in her realms of gloom 
I dusky Proserpine had seen, 
Seen AZacus dispensing doom, 
And the Elysian fields serene, 
Heard Sappho to her lute complain 
Of unrequited passion’s pain ; 


Heard thee, too, O Alczus, tell, 
Striking the while thy golden lyre, 

With fuller note and statelier swell, 
The sorrows and disasters dire 

Of warfare and the ocean deep, 

And those that far in exile weep. 


While shades round either singer throng, 
And the deserved tribute pay 

Of sacred silence to their song, 
Yet chiefly crowd to hear the lay 

Of battles old to story known, 

And haughty tyrants overthrown. 


What wonder they, their ears to feast, 
Should thickly throng, when by these lays 
Entranced, the hundred-headed beast 
Drops his black ears in sweet amaze, 
And even the snakes are charmed, as they 
Among the Furies’ tresses play. 


Nay even Prometheus, and the sire 
Of Pelops, cheated of their pains, 
Forget awhile their doom of ire 
In listening to the wondrous strains ; 
Nor doth Orion longer care 
To hunt the lynx or lion there. 


> 


124 ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS. 
* 


ODEAXIF: 
TO POSTHUMUS. 


Au, Posthumus, the years, the fleeting years 

Still onwards, onwards glide ; 

Nor mortal virtue may 

Time’s wrinkling fingers stay, 

Nor Age’s sure advance, nor Death’s all-conquering 
stride. 


Hope not by daily hecatombs of bulls 

From Pluto to redeem . 

Thy life, who holds thrice vast 

- Geryon fetter’d fast, 

And Tityus, by the waves of yonder rueful stream. 


Sad stream, we all are doom’d one day to cross, 
Ay, all that live by bread, 

Whate’er our lot may be, 

Great lords of high degree, 

Alike with peasant churls, who sii are fed. 


In vain shall we war’s bloody conflict shun, 

And the hoarse scudding gale 

Of Adriatic seas, 

Or fly the southern breeze, 

‘That through the Autumn hours wafts pestilence and 
bale. 


ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS. | 125 


For all must view Cocytus’ pitchy tide 
Meandering slow, and see 

The accursed Danaids moil, 

And that dread stone recoil, 

Sad Sisyphus is doom’d to upheave eternally. 


Land, home, and winsome wife must all be left ; 

And cypresses abhorr’d, 

Alone of all the trees © 

That now your fancy please, 

Shall shade the dust of him, who was their sometime 
lord. 


Then, too, your long imprison’d Caecuban 

A worthier heir shall drain, 

And with a lordlier wine, 

Than at the feasts divine 

Of pontiffs flows, your floor in wassailry shall stain. 


126 ODE XY. ON THE PREVAILING LUXURY. 


ODE XV. 
ON THE PREVAILING LUXURY. 


Soon regal piles each rood of land, 

Will from the farmer’s ploughshare take, 
Soon ponds be seen on every hand 

More spacious than the Lucrine lake. 


Soon the unwedded plane displace 

The vine-wreathed elm; and violet bed 
And myrtle bush, and all the race 

Of scented shrubs their fragrance shed, 


Where fertile olive thickets made 
Their owner rich in days of old ; 
And laurels with thick-woven shade 
At bay the scorching sunbeams hold. 


It was not so when Romulus 
Our greatness fostered in its prime, 
Nor did our great forefathers thus, 
In unshorn Cato’s simple time. 


Man’s private fortunes then were low, 
The public income great; in these 
Good times no long drawn portico 
Caught for its lord the northern breeze. 


ODE XV. ON THE PREVAILING LUXURY. 


Nor did the laws our sires permit 
Sods dug at random to despise 

As for their daily homes unfit ; 
And yet they bade our cities rise 


More stately at the public charge, 
And did, to their religion true, 
The temples of the gods enlarge, 
And with fair-sculptured stone renew. 


127 


128 ODE XVI. TO GROSPHUS. 


ODE AVEz 
TO GROSPHUS. 


For ease he doth the gods implore, 
Who, tossing on the wide 
Egean billows, sees the black clouds hide 
The moon, and the sure stars appear no more, 
The shipman’s course to guide. 


For ease the sons of Thracia cry, 
In battle uncontroll’d, 
_ For ease the graceful-quivered Median bold, 
That ease, which purple, Grosphus, cannot buy, 
Nor wealth of gems or gold. 


_For hoarded treasure cannot keep 


Disquietudes at bay, 

Nor can the consul’s lictor drive away 
The brood of dark solicitudes, that sweep 

Round gilded ceilings gay. 


He lives on little, and is blest, 

On whose plain board the bright 

Salt-cellar shines, which was his sires’ delight, 
Nor terrors, nor cupidity’s unrest 

Disturb his slumbers light. 


Why should we still project and plan, 

We creatures of an hour ? 

Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour? 
Where is the exile, who, since time began, 

To fly from self had power ? 


ODE XVI. TO GROSPHUS. 129 


Fell Care climbs brazen galleys’ sides; 

Nor troops of horse can fi 

Her foot, which than the stag’s is swifter, ay, 
Swifter than Eurus, when he madly rides 

The clouds along the sky. 


Careless what lies beyond to know, 
And turning to the best 
The present, meet life’s bitters with a jest, 
And smile them down; since nothing here below 
Is altogether blest. - 


In manhood’s prime Achilles died, 
Tithonus by the slow 
Decay of age was wasted to a show, 
And Time may what it hath to thee denied 
’ On me perchance bestow. 


Round thee low countless herds and kine 
Of Sicily ; the mare 
Apt for the chariot paws for thee the air, 
And Afric’s costliest dyes incarnadine 
The wools which thou dost wear. 


To me a farm of modest size, 

And slender vein of song, 

Such, as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong, 
Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise 

The base, malignant throng. 


130 ODE XVII. TO MACENAS. 


ODE -X2Vii. 
TO MECENAS. 


Wry wilt thou kill me with thy boding fears ? 
Why, O Mecenas, why ? 
Before thee lies a train of happy years; 
Yes, nor the gods nor I 
Could brook that thou shouldst first be laid in dust, 
That art my stay, my glory, and my trust! 


Ah, if untimely Fate should snatch thee hence, 
Thee, of my soul a part, 

Why should I linger on, with deaden’d sense, 

- And ever-aching heart, 

A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine ? 

No, no, one day shall see thy death and mine! 


Think not, that I have sworn a bootless oath; 
Yes, we shall go, shall go, 

Hand link ’d in hand, whene’er thou leadest both 
The last sad road below! 

Me nor the fell Chimeera’s breath of fire, 

Nor hundred-handed Gyges, through in ire 


He rises against me, from thy side shall sever ; 
For in such sort it hath 

Pleased the dread Fates, and Justice potent ever, 
To interweave our path. 

Beneath whatever aspect thou wert born, 

Libra, or Scorpion fierce, or Capricorn, 


ODE XVII. TO MAECENAS. 131 


The blustering tyrant of the western deep, 
This well I know, my friend, 

Our stars in wondrous wise one orbit keep, 
And in one radiance blend. 

From thee were Saturn’s baleful rays afar 

Averted by great Jove’s refulgent star, 


And His hand stay’d Fate’s downward-swooping 
wing, 
When thrice with glad acclaim | 
The teeming theatre was heard to ring, 
And thine the honour’d name: 
So had the falling timber laid me low, 
But Pan in mercy warded off the blow, 


Pan who keeps watch o’er easy souls like mine. 
Remember, then, to rear 

In gratitude to Jove a votive shrine, 
And slaughter many a steer, 

Whilst I, as fits, an humbler tribute pay, 

And a meek lamb upon his altar lay. 


132 ODE XVIII. TO A MISER. 


ODE XVIII. 
TO A MISER. 


WITHIN my dwelling you behold 
Nor ivory, nor roof of gold ; 

There no Hymettian rafters weigh 
On columns from far Africa ; 

Nor Attalus’ imperial chair 

Have I usurp’d, a spurious heir, 

Nor client dames of high degree 
Laconian purples spin ‘for me ; 4 

But a true heart and genial vein 

Of wit are mine, and great men deign 
To court my company, * though poor. 
For naught beyond do I implore 

The gods, nor crave my potent friend 
A larger bounty to extend, 

With what he gave completely blest, 
My happy little Sabine nest. 


Day treads down day, and sinks amain, 
And new moons only wax to wane, 
Yet you, upon death’s very brink, 
Of piling marbles only think, 
That yet are in the quarry’ s ‘womb, 
And all unmindful of the tomb, 
Rear gorgeous mansions every where : 
Nay, as though earth too bounded were, 
With bulwarks huge thrust back the sea, 
That chafes and breaks on Baie. 


ODE XVIII. TO A MISER. 133 


What though you move the ancient bound 
That marks your humble neighbour’s ground, 
And avariciously o’erleap 
The limits right should bid you keep ? 
Where lies your gain, that driven from home 
Both wife and husband forth must roam, 
Bearing their household gods close press’d 
With squalid babes upon their breast ? 

Still for the man of wealth, ’mid all 
His pomp and pride of place, the hall 
Of sure-devouring Orcus waits 

With its inevitable gates. 


Then why this ceaseless, vain unrest ? 
Earth opens her impartial breast 
To prince and beggar both; nor might 
Gold e’er tempt Hell’s grim satellite 
To waft astute Prometheus o’er 
From yonder ghastly Stygian shore. 
Proud Tantalus and all his race 
He curbs within that rueful place ; 
The toilworn wretch, who cries for ease, 
Invoked or not, he hears and frees. 


134 ODE XIX. TO BACCHUS. 


ODE XIX. 
TO BACCHUS. 


Baccuus I’ve seen, (no fable is my song !) 

Where far among the rocks the hills are rooted, 
His strains dictating to a listening throng 

Of nymphs, and prick-eared Satyrs cloven-footed ! 


Evoe! The dread is on my soul even now, 

Fill’d with the god my breast is heaving wildly! 
Evoe! O spare, Lyzus, spare me, thou, 

And o’er me wield thine awful thyrsus mildly ! 


Now may I dare to sing of Bacchants bold, 
To sing of wine in fountains redly rushing, 
Of milky streams, and honey’s liquid gold 
_ From hollow trunks in woods primeval gushing. 


Now may I chant her honours, too, thy bride, 
Who high among the stars is throned in glory, 

The halls of Pentheus shattered in their pride, 
And of Lycurgus the disastrous story. 


Thee own as lord great rivers, barbarous seas ; 
Thou, where afar the mountain peaks are shining, 

Flush’d with the grape dost revel, there at ease 
Thy Bacchant’s locks unharm’d with vipers twin- 


ing. 


Thou, when the banded giants, impious crew! 
By mountain piled on mountain-top were scalin 
Thy sire’s domains, didst hurl back Rheecus, throug 
Thy lion’s claws, and jawbone fell prevailing. 


ODE XIX. TO BACCHUS. 135 


Though fitter for the dance, and mirth, and jest, 
Than for the battle’s deadly shock reputed, 

Thou didst approve thyself, o’er all the rest 
Alike for peace or warfare aptly suited. 


Thee, gloriously bedeck’d with horn of gold, 
With gently wagging tail soothed Cerberus greet- 


ed, 
And lick’d thy limbs and feet with tongue threefold, 
As from his shady realm thy steps retreated. 


ODE XX. TO MACENAS. 


ODE XX. 
TO M#ZCENAS. 


On pinion newly plumed and strong 
I’ll cleave the liquid air » 
Predestinate, true child of song ! 
A double form to wear. 
Earth shall not keep me from the skies, 
I’ll pierce the smoke of towns, 
And, soaring far aloft, despise 
Their envy and their frowns. 


Though cradled at a poor man’s hearth, 
His offspring, I shall not 

Go down to mix with common earth 
Forgetting and forgot. 

No! 1, whom thou, Mecenas dear, 
Dost mark with thy esteem, 

Shall never pine, a phantom drear, 
By sad Cocytus’ stream. 


Even now I feel the change begin ! 
And see, along my thighs 
It creeps and creeps, the wrinkling skin, 
In sturdy swan-like guise. 
My body all above assumes 
The bird, and white as snow 
Along my shoulders airy plumes 
Down to my fingers grow. 


ODE XX. TO MAECENAS. 


Now swiftlier borne on pinions bold, 
Than Icarus of yore, 

The Bosphorus shall I behold, 
And hear.its billows roar : 

Shall o’er Getulia’s whirling sands, 
Canorous bird, career, 

And view Hyperborean lands 
From heaven’s own azure clear. 


My fame the Colchian, and forlorn 
Gelonian yet shail know, 
The Dacian, too, who seems to scorn, 
But dreads his Marsic foe. 
The Spaniard of an after time 
My minstrel power shall own, 
And I be haii’d a bard sublime 
By him that drinks the Rhone. 


Then sing no dirge above my bier, 
No grief be idly spent ! 

Dishonour lies in every tear, 
Disgrace in each lament. 

All clamours loud of woe forbear ! 
Respect my nobler doom, 

And those superfluous honours spare, 


Which load a vulgar tomb ! 


137 





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ODE... 


IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 


Ye rabble rout, avaunt ! 
Your vulgar din give o’er, 
Whilst I, the Muses’ own hierophant, 
To the pure ears of youths and virgins chant 
In strains unheard before ! 


Great kings, whose frown doth make 
Their crouching vassals quake, 
Themselves must own 
The mastering sway of Jove, imperial god, 
Who from the crash of giants overthrown 
Triumphant honours took, and by his nod 
Shakes all creation’s zone. 


Whate’er our rank may be, 
We all partake one common destiny ! 
In fair expanse of soil, . 
Teeming with rich returns of wine and oil, 
His neighbour one outvies; 
Another claims to rise 
To civic dignities, 
Because of ancestry, and noble birth, 
Or fame, or proved pre-eminence of worth, 


Or troops of clients, clamorous in his cause ; 
Still Fate doth grimly stand, 
And with impartial hand 
The lots of lofty and of lowly draws 
From that capacious urn, 
Whence every name that lives is shaken in its turn. 


142 ODE I. IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 


To him, above whose guilty head, 
Suspended by a thread, 
-The naked sword is hung forevermore, 
Not feasts Sicilian shall 
With all their cates recall 
That zest the simplest fare could once inspire; 
Nor song of birds, nor music of the lyre 
Shall his lost sleep restore : 
But gentle sleep shuns not 
The rustic’s lowly cot, 
Nor mossy bank, o’ercanopied with trees, 
Nor Tempe’s leafy vale stirr’d by the western breeze. 


The man, who lives content with whatsoe’er — 
Sufficeth for his needs, 
The storm-toss’d ocean vexeth not with care, 
Nor the fierce tempest which Arcturus breeds, 
When in the sky he sets, 
Nor that which Heedus, at his rise, begets: 
Nor will he grieve, although 
His vines be all laid low 
Beneath the driving hail, 
Nor though, by reason of the drenching rain, 
’ Or heat, that shrivels up his fields like fire, 
Or fierce extremities of winter’s ire, 
Blight shall o’erwhelm his fruit-trees and his grain, 
And all his farm’s delusive promise fail. 


The fish are conscious that a narrower bound 
Is drawn the seas around 
By masses huge hurl’d down into the deep; 
There at the bidding of a lord, for whom 
Not all the land he owns is ample room, 
Do the contractor and his labourers heap 
Vast piles of stone, the ocean back to sweep. 
But let him climb in pride, 
That lord of halls unblest, 
Up to his lordly nest, 
Yet ever by his side 


ODE I. IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 148 


Climb Terror and Unrest ; 

Within the brazen galley’s sides 
Care, ever wakeful, flits, 

And at his back, when forth in state he rides, 
Her withering shadow sits. 


If thus it fare with all; 
If neither marbles from the Phrygian mine 
Nor star-bright robes of purple and of pall, 
Nor the Falernian vine, 
Nor costliest balsams, fetch’d from farthest Ind, 
Can soothe the restless mind ; 
Why should I choose 
To rear on high, as modern spendthrifts use, 
A lofty hall, might be the home for kings, 
With portals vast, for Malice to abuse, 
Or Envy make her theme to point a tale; 
Or why for wealth, which new-born trouble brings, 
Exchange my Sabine vale ? 


ee eee ne at 


144 ODE II. TO HIS COMPANIONS. © 


ODE Ii. 
TO HIS COMPANIONS. 


In war’s stern school our youth should be 
Steel’d stoutly to endure 

The ills which sharp necessity 
Inflicts upon the poor ; 

To make the Parthians fly in fear 

Before the terrors of their spear ; 


To live alert at danger’s call 
Encamp’d on heath or down; 
Then as they view him from the wall 
Of their beleaguer’d town, 
With sighs the warring monarch’s dame 
And virgin daughter shall exclaim: 


“O grant, ye gods, our royal lord, 
Unskill’d in war’s array, 
Provoke not, by his bootless sword, 
Yon lion to the fray, 
Who rushes with infuriate roar 
Through carnage, dropping gouts of gore!” 
For our dear native land to die 
Is glorious and sweet; 
And death the coward slaves that fly * 
Pursues with steps as fleet, 
- Nor spares the loins and backs of those 
Unwarlike youths, who shun their foes. 


ODE II. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 145 


Worth, all-indifferent to the spurns 
Of vulgar souls profane, 

The honours wears, it proudly earns, 
Unclouded by a stain; 

Nor grasps, nor lays the fasces down, 

As fickle mobs may smile or frown. 


Worth, which heaven’s gate to those unbars, 
Who never should have died, 

A pathway cleaves among the stars, 
To meaner souls denied, 

Soaring in scorn far, far away 

From vulgar crowds and sordid clay. 


For faithful silence too there is 
A guerdon sure: whoe’er 

Has once divulged the mysteries 
Of Ceres’ shrine, shall ne’er 

Partake my roof, nor yet shall he 

In the same vessel sail with me. 


For oft has Jove, when slighted, swept 
Away with sons of shame 

The souls which have their whiteness kept, 
And punishment, though lame 

Of foot, has rarely fail’d to smite 

The knave, how swift soe’er his flight. 


146 ODE III. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 


ODE IIl. 
THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 


HE that is just, and firm of will 
Doth not before the fury quake 

Of mobs that instigate to ill, 

Nor hath the tyrant’s menace skill 
His fixed resolve to shake; 


Nor Auster, at whose wild command 
The Adriatic billows dash, 
Nor Jove’s dread thunder-launching hand. 
Yea, if the globe should fall, he “Il stand 
Serene amidst the crash. 


By constancy like this sustain’d, 
Pollux of yore, and Hercules 

The starry eminences gain’d, 

Where Cesar, with lips purple-stain’d, 
Quaffs nectar, stretch’d at ease. 


Thou, by this power, Sire Bacchus, led, 
To bear the yoke thy pards didst school, 
Through this same power Quirinus fled, 
By Mars’ own horses charioted, 
The Acherontine pool. 


What time the gods to council came, 
And Juno spoke with gracious tone, 
“That umpire lewd and doom’d to shame, 
And his adulterous foreign dame 
Troy, Troy have overthrown ; 


ODE Ill. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 147 


“ Troy doom’d to perish in its pride 
By chaste Minerva and by me, 
Her people, and their guileful guide, 
Since false Laomedon denied 
The gods their promised fee. 


“The Spartan wanton’s shameless guest 
No longer flaunts in brave array, 
Nor screen’d by Hector’s valiant breast, 
Doth Priam’s perjured house arrest 
My Argives in the fray. 


“ Protracted by our feuds no more, 
The war is quell’d. So I abate 

Mine anger, and to Mars restore 

Him, whom the Trojan priestess bore, 
The grandchild of my hate. 


“ Him will I suffer to attain 

These realms of light, these blest abodes, © 
The juice of nectar pure to drain, 
And be enroll’d amid the train 

Of the peace-breathing gods. 


“ As long as the broad rolling sea 
Shall roar ’twixt Ilion and Rome, 

Where’er these wandering exiles be, 

There let them rule, be happy, free; 
Whilst Priam’s, Paris’ tomb 


“ Ts trodden o’er by roving kine, 
And wilé beasts there securely breed, 
The Capitol afar may shine, 
And Rome, proud Rome her laws assign 
Unto the vanquish’d Mede. 


“ Yes, let-her spread her name of fear, 
To farthest shores ; where central waves 


148 ODE IIL. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 


Part Africa from Europe, where 
Nile’s swelling current half the year 
The plains with plenty laves. 


“ Still let her scorn to search with pain 
For gold, the earth hath wisely hid, 
Nor strive to wrest with hands profane 
To mortal use and mortal gain 

What is to man forbid. 


“ Let earth’s remotest regions still 
Her conquering arms to glory call, 
Where scorching suns the long day fill, 
Where mists and snows and tempests chill 
Hold reckless bacchanal. 


“ But let Quirinus’ sons beware, 

For they are doom’d to sure annoy, 
Should they in foolish fondness e’er 
Or vaunting pride the homes repair 

Of their ancestral Troy. 


“Tn evil hour should Troy once more 
Arise, it shall be crush’d anew, 
By hosts that o’er it stride in gore, 
By me conducted, as of yore, 
Jove’s spouse and sister too. 


“ Thrice rear a brazen wall, and though 
Apollo’s self his aidance lent, 

Thrice shall my Argives lay it low, 

Thrice shall the captive wife in woe 
Her lord and babes lament?” 


But whither would’st thou, Muse? Unmeet 
For jocund lyre are themes like these. 
Shalt thou the talk of gods repeat, 
Debasing by thy strains effete - 
Such lofty mysteries ? 


OUR IV. TO ‘CALLIOPE.’ > ; 149. 


ODE IV. 
TO CALLIOPE. 


O QUEEN Calliope, from heaven descend, 
And on the fife prolong 
Thy descant sweet and strong, : 
Or with the lyre, if more it like’ thee, blend 
Thy thrilling voice in song! 


Hark! Or is this but frenzy’s pleasing dream ? 
Through groves I seem to stray 
Of consecrated bay, 

Where voices mingle with the babbling stream, 
And whispering “breezes play. 


When I had stray’d a child on Vultur’s steep, 
Beyond Apulia’s bound, 
Which was my native sround, 

Was I, fatigued with play, beneath a heap 
Of fresh leaves sleeping found, 


Strewn by the storied doves; and wonder fell 
On all, their nest who keep 
On Acherontia’s steep, 

Or in Forentum’s low rich pastures dwell, 
Or Bantine woodlands deep ; 


That safe from bears and adders in such place 
I lay, and slumbering smiled, 
O’erstrewn with myrtle wild 

And laurel, by the gods’ peculiar grace 
No craven-hearted child. 


150 ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 


Yours am I, O ye Muses, yours, whene’er 
The Sabine peaks I scale ; 
Or cool Preeneste’s vale, 

Or Tibur’s slopes, or Baix’s waters fair 
With happy heart I hail. 


Unto your roundels and your fountains vow’d, 
Philippi’s rout, the tree 
Of doom o’erwhelm’d not me, . 

Nor Palinurus ’mid the breakers loud 
Of the Sicilian sea. 


Unshrinkingly, so you be only near, 
The Bosphorus I’ll brave, 
Nor quail, howe’er it rave, 

Assyria’s burning sands I’ll dare, nor fear 
In them to find a grave. 


Shielded by you, I'll visit Britain’s shore 
To. strangers ruthless ever, 
Front the Gelonian quiver, 

The Concan, too, who joys in horses’ gore, 
And Scythia’s icy river. 


Unto great Ceesar’s self ye lend new life 
In grot Pierian, when 
He has disposed his men 

Among the towns, to rest from battle-strife, 
And yearns for peace again. 


From you flow gentle counsels, and most dear 
Such counsels are to you. 
We know, how He o’erthrew 

By His down-swooping bolts those monsters drear, 
The impious Titan crew; 


He who doth earth’s unmoving mass control, 
The tempest-shaken main, 


ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 151 


Throng’d towns, the realms of pain 
And gloom, and doth with even justice sole 
O’er gods and mortals reign. 


When he beheld them first, these brothers stark, 
Proud in their strength of arm, 
Crowding in hideous swarm 

To pile up Pelion on Olympus dark, 
Jove shudder’d with alarm. 


But what could stout Typhceus, Mimas do? 
Or what, for all his might, 
Porphyrion’s threatening height, 

What Preetus, or Enceladus, that threw 
Uprooted trees, in fight 


Against great Pallas’ ringing zgis dash’d, 
What could they all essay ? 
Here, eager for the fray, 

Stood Vulcan, there dame Juno unabash’d, 
And he who ne’er doth lay 


His bow aside, who laves his locks unshorn 

In Castaly’s pure dew, 

Divine Apollo, who 
Haunts Lycia’s woodland glades, in Delos born, 
_ In Patara worshipp’d too. 


Unreasoning strength by its own weight must fall, 
To strength with wisdom blent 
Force by the gods is lent, 

Who hold in scorn that strength, which is on all 
That ’s impious intent. 


See hundred-handed Gyges helpless lie, 
To make my maxim good, 
Orion too, that would 

Lay ruffian hands on chaste Diana, by 
Her virgin shafts subdued. 


152 ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 


Upheaved above the monsters she begot, 
Earth wails her children whirl’d 
To Orcus’ lurid world, 

By vengeful bolts, and the swift fire hath not 
Pierced A&tna o’er it hurl’d. 


Nor does the vulture e’er, sin’s warder grim, 
Lewd Tityus’ liver quit, 
But o’er him still doth sit; 

Pirithous, too, lies fetter’d, limb to limb 
By chains three hundred knit. 


ODE V. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 153 


O.D:B Vi. 
THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 


WHEN through the heavens his thunders blare, 
We think that Jove is monarch there, 
So now Augustus too shall be 
Esteem’d a present deity, 
Since Britons he and Persians dread 
Hath to his empire subjected. 


Has any legionary, who 
His falchion under Crassus drew, 
- A bride barbarian stoop’d to wed, 
And life with her ignobly led ? 
And can there be the man so base 
Of Marsian or Apulian race, 
(O, on the Senate be the blame, 
QO, on our tainted morals shame!) 
As with his spouse’s sire, his foe, 
And in a foeman’s camp, to grow 
To age beneath some Median King, 
The Shields no more remembering, 
Nor yet the Roman dress or name, 
Nor Vesta’s never-dying flame, 
Whilst still unscathed stands Jove, and Rome, 
His city, and his only home ? 


Ah, well he fear’d such shame for us, 
The brave, far-seeing Regulus, 
When he the vile conditions spurn’d, 


That might to precedent be turn’d, 
7% 


154 ODE VY. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 


With ruin and disaster fraught 

To after times, should they be taught 
Another creed than this, — “ They die 
Unwept, who brook captivity !” 


“T’ve seen,” he cried, “ our standards hung 
In Punic fanes, our weapons wrung 
From Roman hands without a blow; 
Our citizens, I’ve seen them go, _ 
With arms behind their free backs tied, 
Gates I have seen flung open wide, 
Ay, Roman troops I’ve seen, disgraced 
To till the plains they had laid waste! 


“ Will he return more brave and bold, 
The soldier you redeem with gold ? 
You add but loss unto disgrace. 
Its native whiteness once efface 
With curious dyes; you can no more 
That whiteness to the wool restore ; 
Nor is true valour, once debased, 
In souls corrupt to be replaced ! 


“Tf from the tangled meshes freed, 
The stag will battle, then indeed 
May he conspicuous valour show, 
Who trusted the perfidious foe, — 
He smite upon some future field 
The Carthaginian, who could yield 
In fear of death his arms to be 
Bound up with thongs submissively ! 
Content to draw his caitiff breath, 
Nor feel such life is worse than death! 
O shame! O mighty Carthage, thou 
On Rome’s fallen glories towerest now!” 


From his chaste wife’s embrace, they say, 
And babes, he tore himself away, 


ODE VY. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR, 155 


As he had forfeited the right 

To clasp them as a freeman might ; 

Then sternly on the ground he bent 

His manly brow ; and so he lent | 
Decision to the senate’s s voice, 

That paused and waver’d in its choice, 
And forth the noble exile strode, 

Whilst friends in anguish lined the road. 


Noble indeed! for, though he knew 
What tortures that barbarian crew 
Had ripe for him, he waved aside — 
The kin that did his purpose chide, 
The thronging crowds, that strove to stay 
His passage, with an air as gay, 
As though at close of some decree 
Upon a ‘client’s lawsuit he 
Its dreary coil were leaving there, 
To green Venafrum to repair, 
Or to Tarentum’s breezy shore, ' 
Where Spartans built their town of yore. 


156. 


ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 


ODE Vit 
TO THE ROMANS. 


YE Romans, ye, though guiltless shall 
Dread expiation make for all 

The laws your sires have broke, 
Till ye repair with loving pains 
The gods’ dilapidated fanes, 

Their statues grimed with smoke ! 


. Ye rule the world, because that ye 


Confess the gods’ supremacy, 

Hence all your grandeur grows! 
The gods, in vengeance for neglect, 
Hesperia’s wretched land have wreck’d 

Beneath unnumbered woes. 


Twice have Monases, and the hordes 

Of Pacorus withstood the swords 
Of our ill-omén’d host ; 

No more in meagre torques equipp’d, 

But deck’d with spoils from Romans stripp’d, 
They of our ruin boast. 


Dacian and Ethiop have well-nigh 

Undone our Rome distracted by 
Intestine feud and fray ; 

This by his fleet inspiring fear, 

That by his shafts, which far and near 
Spread havoc and dismay. 


ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 


Our times, in sin prolific, first 

The marriage-bed with taint have cursed, 
And family and home; 

This is the fountain-head of all 

The sorrows and the ills that fall 
On Romans and on Rome. 


The ripening virgin joys to learn 
In the Ionic dance to turn 
And bend with plastic limb; 
Still but a child, with evil gleams 
Incestuous love’s unhallowed dreams 
Before her fancy swim. 


Straight, in her husband’s wassail hours, 

She seeks more youthful paramours, 
And little recks, on whom 

She may her lawless joys bestow 

By stealth, when all the lamps burn low, 
And darkness shrouds the room. 


Yea, she will on a summons fly, 
Nor is her spouse unconscious why, 
To some rich broker’s arms, 
Or some sea-captain’s fresh from Spain, 
With wealth to buy her shame, and gain 
Her mercenary charms. 


They did not spring from sires like these, 
The noble youth, who dyed the seas 
With Carthaginian gore, 
Who great Antiochus o’ercame, 
And Pyrrhus, and the dreaded name 
Of Hannibal of yore ; 


But they, of rustic warriors wight 
The manly offspring, learned to smite 
The soil with Sabine spade, 


157 


158 


ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 


And fagots they had cut to bear 
Home trom the forest, whensoe’er 
An austere mother bade; 


‘What time the sun began to change 


The shadows through the mountain range, 
And took the yoke away 

From the o’erwearied oxen, and 

His parting car proclaim’d at hand 
The kindliest hour of day. 


How Time doth in its flight debase 
Whate’er it finds? Our fathers’ race, 
More deeply versed in ill 
Than were their sires, hath borne us yet 
More wicked, duly to beget 
A race more vicious still. 


ODE VII. TO ASTERIE. 159 


ODE VII. 
TO ASTERIE. 


Way weep, Asterié, for the youth, 

That soul of constancy and truth, 
Whom from Bithynia’s shore 

Rich with its wares, with gentle wing 

The west-winds shall in early spring 
To thy embrace restore ? 


Driven by the southern gales, when high 
Mad Capra’s star ascends the sky, 
- To Oricum, he keeps 
Sad vigils through the freezing nights, 
And, thinking of his lost delights 
With thee, thy Gyges weeps. 


Yet in a thousand artful ways 
His hostess’ messenger essays 
To tempt, him, urging how 
Chloé — for such her name — is doom’d 
By fires like thine to be consumed, 
And sigh as deep as thou ; 


Narrating, how by slanders vile 

A woman’s falsehood did beguile 
The credulous Preetus on, 

To hurry with untimely haste 

Into the toils of death the chaste, 
Too chaste Bellerophon. 


160 


ODE VII. TO ASTERIE. 


Of Peleus then he tells, who thus 
Was nigh consign’d to Tartarus, 
Because his coldness shamed 
Magnessia’s queen Hippolyte, 

And hints at stories craftily 
To sap his virtue framed. 


In vain! For he, untouch’d as yet, 
Is deafer than the rocks that fret 
The Icarian waves ;— but thou, 
Keep watch upon thy fancy too, 
Nor to Enipeus there undue 
Attractiveness allow ! 


Though no one on the Martian Mead 

Can turn and wind a mettled steed 
So skilfully as he, 

Nor any breast the Tuscan tide, 

And dash its tawny waves aside 
With such celerity. 


At nightfall shut your doors, nor then 

Look down into the street again, 
When quavering fifes complain ; 

And though he call thee, as*he will, 

Unjust, unkind, unfeeling, still 
Inflexible remain ! 


ODE VIII. TO MXCENAS. 161 


OD ESV DLL. 
TO MAECENAS. 


Way a bachelor such as myself should disport . 
On the Kalends of March, what these garlands 
import, 
What the censer with incense fill’d full, you inquire, 
And the green turf, with charcoal laid ready to fire ? 
If the cause of all these preparations you seek, 
You, versed in the lore both of Latin and Greek, 
It is this! That I vow’d, when nigh kill’d by the 
blow 
Of yon tree, unto Liber a goat white as snow, 
With festival rites; and the circling year now 
Has brought round the day that I offer’d my vow. 
’'T is a day, which the well-rosin’d cork shall unyoke 
Of the jar, that was set to be fined in the smoke, 
When Tullius was Consul. In cups without end 
Then pledge me, Mecenas, for safe is thy friend ; 
Let the dawn find our lamps still ablaze, and afar 
_ From our revel be anger, and clamour and jar! 
Your cares for the weal of the city dismiss, 
And why should you not, at a season like this? 
There is Dacian Cotiso’s army is shent, 
And the Median by discords intestine is rent; 
The vanquish’d Cantabrian yonder in Spain 
Submits after long years of strife to our chain, 
And the Scythians, unbending their bows in despair, 
To fly from the plains they had ravaged prepare. 
Then a respite from public anxieties steal, 
Feel the easy indifference private men feel, 
Snatch gayly the joys which the moment shall bring, 
And away every care and perplexity fling. 
; K 


162 ODE IX. THE RECONCILIATION. 


ODE IX. 
THE RECONCILIATION. 


HORACE. 


Wurtst thou wert ever good and kind, 
And IJ, and I alone might lie 

Upon thy snowy breast reclined, 
Not Persia’s king so blest as I. 


LYDIA. 


Whilst I to thee was all in all, 

Nor Chloé might with Lydia vie, 
Renown’d in ode or madrigal, 

Not Roman Ilia famed as I. 


HORACE. 


I now am Thracian Chloé’s slave, 

With hand and voice that charms the air, 
For whom ev’n death itself I’d brave, 

So fate the darling girl would spare! 


LYDIA. 


I dote on Calais — and 1 
Am all his passion, all his care, 
For whom a double death I’d die, 
So fate the darling boy would spare. 


ODE IX. THE RECONCILIATION. 163 


HORACE. 


What, if our ancient love return, 
And bind us closer in its chain, 
If I the far-hair’d Chloé spurn, 
And welcome Lydia’s charms again ? 


LYDIA. 


Though lovelier than yon star is he, 
Thou fickle as an April sky, 

More churlish too than Adria’s sea, 
With thee I’d live, with thee I’d die! 


164 ODE X. TO-LYCK. 


Q.D Eek 
TO LYCE. 


THouGuH your drink were the Tanais, chillest of 
rivers, 
And your lot with some conjugal savage were 
cast, 
You should pity, sweet Lycé, the poor soul that 
shivers 
Out here at your door in the merciless blast. 


Only hark how the doorway goes straining and 
creaking, 
And the piercing wind pipes through the trees 
that surround 
The court of your villa, while black frost is streak- 
ing 
With ice the crisp snow that lies thick on the 
ground ! 


In your pride — Venus hates it — no longer en- 
velop ye 
Or haply 5 you'll find yourself laid on the shelf; 
You never were made for a prudish Penelope, 
’T is not in the blood of your sires or yourself. 


Though nor gifts nor entreaties can win a soft an- 
swer, 
Nor the violet pale of my love-ravaged cheek, 


“ODE X. TO LYCE. 165 


Though your husband be false with a Greek ballet- 
dancer, 
And you still are true, and forgiving, and meek ; 


Ladies should n’t as snakes of the jungle be cruel, 
Nor at heart be as tough as the oak’s toughest 
bole ; 
And I can’t stand out here every evening »my jewel, 
Singing, drench’d to the skin, nor I won ’t, on my 
~ soul ! 


166 ODE XI. TO LYDE. 


ODE XI. 
TO LYDE. 


O Hermes, taught by whom Amphion’s throat 
Charm’d into motion stones and senseless things, 

And thou sweet shell, that dost with dulcet note 
Make music from thy seven melodious strings, 


Thou once nor sweet, nor voluble, but now 
In fane, or rich man’s feast, a welcome guest, 
Give to my song the charmer’s might, to bow 
Lyde’s unyielding ear, and unrelenting breast! 


Lydé, who, like a filly full of play 

That frisks and gambols o’er the meadows wide, 
And fears e’en to be touch’d, will never stay 

To list the burning tale that woos her for a bride. 


Thou listening woods canst lead, and tigers fell, 
And stay the rapid rivers in their course ; 
Yea, the grim janitor of ghastly hell 
Crouch’d on his post, subdued by thy persuasive 
force. 


Though countless serpents — sentinels full dread — 
The ridges of his fateful brows empale, 

And, loathly steaming, from his'triple head 
Swelters black gore, and poisonous blasts exhale. 


ODE XI. TO LYDE. 167 


Ev’n Tityus and Ixion grimly smiled 
Through all their anguish, and awhile hung dry 
The toiling urn, whilst the sweet strain beguiled 
The Danaids, that stood in soothed oblivion by. 


In Lydt’s ear reverberate their guilt, 
And its dread punishment, to draw forever 
A jar of water that is ever spilt, 
Through the pierced bottom lost in the sad-flow- 
ing river. 


Show her the vengeance sure, howe’er delayed, 
Which ype in Orcus crimes like theirs must 
feel, 
Those impious girls, stain’d with guilt’s blackest 
shade, 
Those impious girls, who slew their lords with 
savage steel ! 


One only, worthy of the bridal bed, 
Of all the train, was to her perjured sire 
Maenificently false, and fame shall spread 
Her praise through endless time, link’d to the liv- 
ing lyre. 


“ Rise, rise!” Thus to her youthful mate she spoke, 
“ Lest thou from hands, whose guilt is little fear’d, 
Receive a sleep, that never shall be broke ! 
Fly from my father false and ruthless sisters 
weird ! 


“Who now, like lions ravening o’er their prey, 
Butcher their wedded lords, alas, alas ! 
I strike thee not — I, gentler-soul’d than they, 
Nor keep thee prison’d here, but bid thee freely 
pass. 


‘‘ My sire may load my arms with cruel chains, 
Because in pity I my lord did spare, 


168 ODE XI. TO LYDR. 


Or o’er the seas to far Numidia’s plains 
May banish me, yet all for thee I'll gladly bear! 


“Go! speed thee hence, unfurl thy swelling sail, 
While Venus favours, and this midnight gloom! 
The gods defend thy steps! And let the tale 
Of what I loved and lost be graven upon thy 
tomb !” 


ODE XII. TO NEOBULE. 169 


ODE XII. 
TO NEOBULE. 


Marps ne’er to their heart’s love, ~ 
Poor souls, may give play, 
Nor wash in the wine-cup 
Their troubles away ; 
More dead than alive, 
They are haunted by fear 
To be scourged by the tongue 
Of a guardian austere. 


Cytherea’s wing’d urchin 
From thee doth beguile 

Thy work-box, and Hebrus 
Of Lipara’s isle 

From thy broidery weans thee, 
And all the hard lore, 

Which thou, Neobule, 
Didst toil at of yore. 


A handsome young fellow 

Is he, when he laves 
His balm-dropping shoulders 

In Tiber’s dun waves; 
Bellerophon’s self 

Not so well graced a steed, 
He is peerless in boxing, 

A race-horse in speed ; 

8 


170 


ODE XII. TO NEOBULE. 


Expert too in striking 
The stag with his spear, 
When the herd o’er the champaign 
Fly panting in fear ; 
Nor less ready handed 
The boar to surprise, 
Where deep in the shade 
Of the covert it lies. 


ODE XIII. TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN. 171 


99 BS Dee. 8 
TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN. 


O rounTAIN of Bandusia, 

Sparkling brighter in thy play, 

Far than erystal, thou of wine 
Worthy art and fragrant twine 

Of fairest flowers! ‘To-morrow thou 
A kid shalt have, whose swelling brow, 
And horns just budding into life, 
Give promise both of love and strife. 
Vain promise all! For in the spring 
And glory of his wantoning, 

His blood shall stain thy waters cool 
With many a deep-ensanguined pool. 


Thee the fiery star, the hot 

Breath of noonday toucheth not. 
Thou a grateful cool dost yield 

To the flocks that range afield, 

And breathest freshness from thy stream 
To the labour-wearied team. 

Thou, too, shalt be one erelong 

Of the fountains famed in song, 
When I sing the ilex bending 

O’er thy mosses, whence descending 
Thy delicious waters bound, 
Prattling to the rocks around. 


172 ODE XIV. TO THE ROMANS. 


ODE: Xive 
TO THE ROMANS. 


Czsar, O people, who of late, 

Like Hercules defying fate, 

Was said the laurel to have sought 
Which only may by death be bought, 
To his home-gods returns again, 
Victorious, from the shores of Spain! 


To the just gods to pay their rites, 
Now let the matron, who delights _ 
In him her peerless lord, repair, 
And our great leader’s sister fair ; 
And with them go the mothers chaste, 
Their brows with suppliant fillets graced, 
Of our fresh maids, and of the brave 
Young men, who late have ’scaped the grave! 
And O ye boys, and new-made brides, 
Hush every word that ill betides! 


From me this truly festal day 
Shall drive each cloud of care away ; 
Nor shall I draw in fear my breath 
For civil broil or bloody death, 
While Cesar sway o’er earth shall bear. 
Away, then, boy, bring chaplets fair, 
Bring unguents, and with these a jar, 
That recollects the Marsian war, 
If aught that held the juice of grape 
Might roving Spartacus escape ! 


a 


ODE XIV. TO THE ROMANS. 


Newra, too, that singer rare, 
Go, bid her quickly bind her hair, 
Her myrrhy hair, in simple knot, 
And haste to join me on the spot! 
But if her porter say thee nay, 
The hateful churl! then come away. 
Time-silvered locks the passions school, 
And make the testiest brawler cool; 
I had not brook’d his saucy prate, 
When young, in Plancus’ consulate. 


173 


174 ODE XV. TO CHLORIS. 


ODE 2 yv. 
TO CHLORIS. 


QuIT, quit, ’t is more than time, thou wife 
Of Ibycus the pauper, 

Thy horribly abandoned life, 
And courses most improper ! 


Ripe for the grave, ’mongst girls no more 
Attempt to sport thy paces, 

Nor fling thy hideous shadow o’er 
Their pure and starry graces. 


What charmingly on Pholoé sits 
In Chloris must repel us: 

Thy daughter better it befits 
To hunt up the young fellows. 


Like Meenad, by the timbrel made 
Of all restraint oblivious, 

She by her love for Nothus sway’d 
Like she-goat frisks lascivious. 


To spin Luceria’s fleeces suits 
A crone like thee; no patience 
Can brook thy roses, and thy lutes, 
And pottle-deep potations. 


ODE XVI. TO MAECENAS. 175 


ODE XVI. 
TO MZCENAS. 


WELL the tower of brass, the massive doors, 

the watch-dogs’ dismal bay 

Had from midnight wooers guarded Danaé, where 
immured she lay ; 

There she might have pined a virgin, prison’d by 
the timorous craft 

Of her fated sire Acrisius, had not Jove and Venus 
laugh’d 

At his terrors; for no sooner changed the god to 
gold, than he 

Instantly unto the maiden access found secure and 
free. 


Through close lines on lines of sentries gold to 

cleave its way delights, 

Stronger than the crashing lightning through op- 

posing rocks it smites ; 

*T was through vile desire of lucre, as the storied 
legends tell, 

That the house of Argos’ augur whelm’d in death 
and ruin fell; 

*T was by bribes the Macedonian city’s gates could 
open fling, 

*T' was by bribes that he subverted many a dreaded 
rival king ; 


176 ODE XVI. TO MA&CENAS. 


Nay, there lies such fascination in the gleam of gold 
to some, 

That our bluffest navy-captains to its witchery suc- 
cumb. 


But as wealth into our coffers flows in still increas- 

ing store, 

So, too, still our care increases, and the hunger still 
for more, 

Therefore, O Mecenas, glory of the knights, with 
righteous dread, 

Have I ever shrunk from lifting too conspicuously 
my head. 

Yes, the more a man, believe me, shall unto himself 
deny, 

So to him shall the Immortals bounteously the more 
supply. 

From the ranks of wealth deserting, I, of all their 
trappings bare, 

To the camp of those who covet naught that pelf 
can bring repair, 

More illustrious as the master of my poor despiséd 
hoard, 

Than if I should be reputed in my garners to have 
stored 

All the fruits of all the labours of the stout Apulian 


oor, 
Lord belike of wealth unbounded, yet -as veriest 
beggar poor.. 


In my crystal stream, my woodland, though its 

acres are but few, 

And the trust that I shall gather home my crops in 
season due, 

Lies a joy, which he may never grasp, who rules in 
gorgeous state 

Fertile Africa’s dominions. Happier, happier far 
my fate! 


ODE XVI. TO M#ZXCENAS. 1%¢ 


Though for me no bees Calabrian store their honey, 
nor doth wine 

Sickening in the Lestrygonian amphora for me 
refine ; 

Though for me no flocks unnumber’d, browsing 
Gallia’s pastures fair, 

Pant beneath their swelling fleeces, I at least am 
free from care; 

Haggard want with direful clamour ravins never at 
my door, — 

Nor wouldst thou, if more I wanted, O my friend, 
deny me more. 

_ Appetites subdued will make me richer with my 
scanty gains, 

Than the realms of Alyattes wedded to Mygdonia’s 

lains. 

Much will evermore be wanting unto those who 
much demand ; 

Blest, whom Jove with what sufficeth dowers, but 
dowers with sparing hand. 


g * L 


178 ODE XVII. TO ZLIUS LAMIA. — 


ODE XVII. 
TO ALIUS LAMIA. 


ZELIUS, sprung from Lamos old, 
That mighty king, who first, we ’re told 
Ruled forted Formiz, 
And all the land-on either hand, 
Where Liris by Marica’s strand 
Goes rippling to the sea ; 


Unless yon old soothsaying crow 
Deceive me, from the East shall blow 
To-morrow such a blast, 
As will with leaves the forest strew, 
And heaps of useless algze too 
Upon the sea-beach cast. 


Dry fagots, then, house while you may ; 
Give all your household holiday 
To-morrow, and with wine 
Your spirits cheer, be blithe and bold, 
And on a pigling two moons old 
Most delicately dine ! 


ODE XVIII. TO FAUNUS. 


ODE XVIII. 
TO FAUNUS. 


Faunvs, lover of the shy 
Nymphs who at thy comin¢ fly, 
Lightly o’er my borders tread, 
And my fields in sunshine spread, 
And, departing, leave me none 
Of my yeanling flock undone! 

So each closing year shall see 

A kidling sacrificed to thee ; 

So shall bounteous bowls of wine, 
Venus’ comrades boon, be thine ; 
So shall perfumes manifold 
Smoke around thine altar old! 


When December’s Nones come round 


Then the cattle all do bound 
O’er the grassy plains in play ; 
The village, too, makes holiday, 
With the steer from labour free’d 


Sporting blithely through the mead. 
*Mongst the lambs, that fear him not, 


Roves the wolf; each sylvan spot 


Showers its woodland leaves for thee, 


And the delver, mad with glee, 
Joys with quick-redoubling feet 
The detested ground to beat. 


179 


— 180 ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS. 


ODE XIX. 
TO TELEPHUS. 


How long after Inachus, Codrus bore sway there 
In Greece, for whose sake he so gallantly fell, 

Every scion of AZacus’ race, every fray there 
Beneath holy Troy’s leaguer’d walls you can tell. 


But the price one may purchase choice old Chian 
wine at, 
Or who has good baths, that you never have told, 
Nor where we shall find pleasant chambers to dine 
at, 
And when be secure from Pelignian cold. 


To the new moon a cup, boy, to midnight another, 
And quickly, — to augur Mureena a “third | 
To each bowl give three measures, or nine, — one 
or t’ other 
Will do, less or more would be wrong and absurd ! 


The bard, who is vow’d to the odd-numbered Muses, 

For bumpers thrice three in his transport will 
call ; 

But the Grace with her loose-kirtled sisters refuses 

To grant more than three in her horror of brawl. 


For me, I delight to go mad for a season! 
Why ceases “the shrill Berecynthian flute 


ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS. 181 


To pour its bewailings ? And what is the reason, 
The lyre and the flageolet yonder hang mute ? 


[ hate niggard hands; then strew freely the roses ! 
Let envious Lycus there hear the mad din, 

And she, our fair neighbour, who with him reposes ; 
That she with old Lycus should live is a sin. 


Thee, Telephus, thee, with thy thick-flowing tresses 
All radiant as Hesper at fall of the day, 

Sweet Rhode is longing to load with caresses, 
Whilst I waste for Glycera slowly away! 


182 ODE XX. TO PYRRAUS. 


ODE XxX. 
TO PYRRHUS. 


WHAT man is he so mad, as dare 

From Moorish lioness to tear 

Her cubs? My Pyrrhus, dost not see, 
How perilous the task must be ? 

Soon, soon thy heart will fail, and thou 
Wilt shun the strife awaits thee now; 
When through the youths, that throng to stay 
Her course, she fiercely makes her way, 
To find Nearchus, peerless youth, 

O rare the struggle, small the ruth, 

Till one or other yields, and he 

Her prize, or thine, at last shall be! 


Meanwhile, whilst for the frenzied fair 
Thou dost thy deadliest shafts prepare, 
_ And she whets her appalling teeth, 
The umpire of the fray beneath 
His heel, so gossip says, will crush 
The palm, and spread, to meet the rush 
Of breezes cool, the odorous hair 
That clusters round his shoulders fair, 
Like Nireus, he or whom of yore 
Jove’s bird from watery Ida bore! 


ODE XXI. TO A JAR OF WINE. 183 


ODE XXII. 
TO A JAR OF WINE. 


O PRECIOUS crock, whose summers date, 
Like mine, from Manlius’ consulate, 
I wot not whether in your breast 
Lie maudlin wail or merry jest, 
Or sudden choler, or the fire 
Of tipsy Love’s insane desire, 
Or fumes of soft caressing sleep, 
Or what more potent charms you keep, 
But this I know, your ripened power 
Befits some choicely festive hour. 
A cup peculiarly mellow 
Corvinus asks; so come, old fellow, 
From your time-honoured bin descend, 
And let me gratify my friend ! 
No churl is he, your charms to slight, 
Though most intensely erudite : 
And even old Cato’s worth, we know, 
Took from good wine a nobler glow. 


Your magic power of wit can spread 
The halo round a dullard’s head, 
Can make the sage forget his care, 
His bosom’s inmost thoughts unbare, 
And drown his solemn-faced pretence 
Beneath your blithesome influence. 
Bright hope you bring and vigour back 
To minds outworn upon the rack, 


184 ODE XXI. TO A JAR OF WINE. 


And put such courage in the brain, 
As makes the poor be men again, 
Whom neither tyrants’ wrath affrights, 
Nor all their bristling satellites. 


Bacchus, and Venus, so that she 
Bring only frank festivity, 
With sister Graces in her train, 
Entwining close in lovely chain, 
And gladsome tapers’ living light, 
Shall spread your treasures o’er the night, 
Till Pheebus the red East unbars, 
And puts to rout the trembling stars. 


* ODE XXII. TO DIANA. 185 


ODE XXII. 
TO DIANA. 


Hatt, guardian maid 
Of mount and forest glade, 
Who, thrice invoked, dost bow 
Thine ear, and sendest aid 
To girls in labour with the womb, 
And snatchest them from an untimely tomb, 
Goddess three-forméd thou! 


I consecrate as thine 
This overhanging pine, 
My villa’s shade ; 
There, as my years decline, 
The blood of boar so young, that he 
Dreams only yet of sidelong strokes, by me 
Shall joyfully be paid ! 


186 ODE XXIII. TO PHIDYLE. 


ODE XXIII. 
TO PHIDYLE. 


Ir thou, at each new moon, thine upturn’d palms, 
My rustic Phidyle, to heaven shalt lift, 

The Lares soothe with steam of fragrant balms, 
A sow, and fruits new-pluck’d, thy simple gift ; 


Nor venom’d blast shall nip thy fertile vine, 
Nor mildew blight thy harvest in the ear; 

Nor shall thy flocks, sweet nurslings, peak and pine, 
When apple-bearing Autumn chills the year. 


The victim mark’d for sacrifice, that feeds 
On snow-capp’d Algidus, in leafy lane 
Of oak and ilex, or on Alba’s meads, 
With its rich blood the pontiff’s axe may stain; 


Thy little gods for humbler tribute call, 

Than blood of many victims; twine for them 
Of rosemary a simple coronal, 

And the lush myrtle’s frail and fragrant stem. 


The costliest sacrifice that wealth can make 
From the incensed Penates less commands 

A soft response, than doth the poorest cake, 
If on the altar laid with spotless hands. 


ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 187 


ODE XXIV. 


TO THE COVETOUS. 


Tuover thou, of wealth possess ’d 
Beyond rich Ind’s, or Araby’s the blest, 
Should’st with thy palace keeps 
Fill all the Tuscan and Apulian deeps, 
If Fate, that spoiler dread, 
Her adamantine bolts drive to the head, 
Thou shalt not from despairs 
Thy spirit free, nor loose thy at from death’s dark 
snares. 


The Scythians of the plains 
More happy are, housed in their wandering wains, 
More blest the Getan stout, 
Who not from acres mark’d and meted out 
Reaps his free fruits and grain : 
A year, no more, he rests in . his domain, 
Then, pausing from his toil, 
He quits it, and in turn another tills the soil. 


The guileless stepdame there 

The orphan tends with all a mother’s care ; 
No dowried dame her spouse 

O’erbears, or trusts the sleek seducer’s vows ; 


” 


188 ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 


Her dower a blameless life, 

True to her lord, she shrinks an unstain’d wife 
Even from another’s breath ; 

To fall is there acrime, and there the guerdon death! 


O, for the man, would stay 
Our gory hands, our civil broils allay ! 
If on his statues he 
SiRE OF THE COMMON-WEAL proclaim’d would be, 
Let him not fear to rein 
Our wild licentiousness, content to gain 
From after-times renown, 
For ah! while Virtue lives, we hunt her down, 
And only learn to prize ’ 
Her worth, when she has pass’d forever from our 
eyes | 


What boots it to lament, 
If crime be not cut down by punishment ? 
What can vain laws avail, 
If life in every moral virtue fail ? 
If nor the clime, that glows 
Environ’d round by fervid heats, nor snows 
And biting Northern wind, 
Which all the earth in icy cerements bind, 
The merchant back can keep, 
And skilful shipmen flout the horrors of the deep ? 


Yes! Rather than be poor, 

What will not mortals do, what not endure ? 
Such dread disgrace to shun, 

From virtue’s toilsome path away we run. 
Quick, let us ’mid the roar 

Of crowds applauding to the echo pour 
Into the Capitol, 

Or down into the nearest ocean roll 
Our jewels, gems, and gold, 

Dire nutriment of ills and miseries untold! 


ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 189 


If with sincere intent 
We would of our iniquities repent, 
Uprooted then must be 
The very germs of base cupidity, 
And our enervate souls 
Be braced by manlier arts for nobler goals! 
The boy of noble race 
_ Can now not sit his steed, and dreads the chase, 
But wields with mastery nice 
The Grecian hoop, or even the law-forbidden dice! 


What marvel, if the while 
His father, versed in every perjured wile, 
For vilest private ends 
Defrauds his guests, his partners, and his friends, 
His pride, his only care, 
To scramble wealth for an unworthy heir! 
They grow, his ill-got gains, 
But something still he lacks, and something ne’er 
attains ! 


190 ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. 


ODE XXYV. 


TO BACCHUS. 


WHITHER, whither, full of thee, 
Bacchus, dost thou hurry me ? 

Say, what groves are these I range, 
Whirl’d along by impulse strange, 
What the caves, through which I fly ? 
Tell me, in what grot shall I 

Swell illustrious Ceesar’s praise, 
Striving to the stars to raise 

Worth that worthy is to shine 

In Jove’s council-hall divine ? 


I a strain sublime shall pour, 

Ne’er by mortal sung before. 

As the Eviad, from some height, 
Sleepless through the livelong night, 
With a thrill of wild amaze 

Hebrus at his feet surveys 

Thrace, enwrapp’d in snowy sheet, 
Rhodope by barbarous feet 
Trodden, so where’er I rove 

Far from human haunts, the, grove, 
Rock, and crag, and woodland height 
Charm me with a wild delight. 


O thou, who dost the Naiads, and 
The Bacchanalian maids command, 


ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. Yor 


. Whose hands uproot, such strength have they, 
Ash-trees with storms of ages grey, 

No mean, no mortal theme is mine, 

Nor less my numbers than divine! 

Though perilous, ’t is glorious too, 

O great Lenzus, to pursue 

The god, who round his forehead twines 
Leaves gather’d freshly from the vines. 


192 ODE XXVI. TO VENUS. 


ODE XXXVI. 
TO VENUS. 


Or late I’ve been leading a life of flirtation, 
And trophies have won, that I care not to show; 
But wooing and winning are only vexation, F 

I’m heartily sick of the business. Heigho! 


My spurs having earn’d, I ’ll lay down my armour, 
And hang up my lyre, ne’er to touch it again, 
On this wall by the left hand of Venus the charmer, 
Bright Venus Thalassia, that springs from the 

main. 


Quick, eee pile them here, while the fit is upon 


The one the tabors, the arrows, the pike, 
And the crowbar, which oft-time an entrance hath 
won me 
To beauty that only to valour would strike. 


O Goddess, o’er Cyprus the sunny who reignest, 
Fair queen of soft Memphis, oblige me and touch 
With your scourge that minx Chice — the scorn- 
fullest, vainest — 
Just so as to frighten, but not hurt her — much! 


ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 


rts toe VL 
TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 


LET omens dire the bad attend, 
Who would upon a journey wend, — 
The bitch in whelp, the screeching owl 
The dun she-wolf upon her prowl 
Of hunger from Lanuvium’s rocks, 
And, worse than all, the pregnant fox; 
Nor care I if, their course to break, 
With sudden spring some nimble snake 
Shall cross the road-way like a dart, 
And make their carriage horses start! 
But I with sage forecasting skill, 

For her I love and fear for will 

By my strong pray’rs’ resistless force 
Call from the East the raven hoarse, 
Ere, scenting rain at hand, again 

It seek its haunts amid the fen. 


May’st thou be happy, wheresoe’er 
Thou go’st, and me in memory bear, 
Fair Galatea! Boding jay 
Nor vagrant crow shall bar thy way. 
But see, with what a troubled glare 
Orion’s star is setting there ! 

Trust me! I’ve wrestled with the gales 
Of Hadria’s gulf, could tell thee tales, 
Would scare thee, of the mischief too, 


193 


Which smooth-lipp’d western winds can do. 
9 ‘ 


M 


194 ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 


Let our foes’ wives, and all their kind, 
Feel rising Auster’s fury blind, 

And shudder at black ocean’s roar, 

What time it smites the trembling shore. 
Like thee, Europa her fair side 

Did to the treacherous bull confide, 

But found her courage fail, when she 
Beheld the monsters of the sea ; 

She who but late through all her hours 
Amongst the meads cull’d wilding flowers, 
In garlands and festoons to twine 

Around the guardian wood-nymphs’ shrine, 
Now nought beneath the louring sky 

But stars and billows could desery. 


Soon as she touch’d the Cretan ground, 
For five score cities fair renown’d, 
“ How, O my sire!” did she exclaim, 
“ Have I foregone a daughter’s name ? 
Slave to mad passion, how have I 
Broke every holy filial tie ? 
Whence have I come, and whither flown ? 
One death is worthless to atone 
For guilt like mine, so base, so deep! 
Wake I, and have I cause to weep ? 
Or is my soul yet free from stain, 
And these but phantoms of the brain, 
Mere incorporeal films of dream, 
Which through Sleep’s ivory portal stream ? 


“ O madness, to have left my home, 
To deem it happier, thus to roam 
Yon weary waste of waters blue, 
Than gather flowers that freshly grew! 
If any to my rage should now 
Yield that vile bull, this steel, I vow, 
Should hew him down before me here, 
And break his horns though late so dear. 
Shameless my father’s hearth I fled! 


ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 195 


Shameless I shrink from Orcus dread ! 
Place me, ye gods, in righteous wrath, 
Naked upon the lion’s path, 

Or give me, ere grief’s wasting might 
The blossoms of my cheek shall blight, 
And sap my blood’s warm tide away, 
To be the hungry tiger’s prey ! 


“ Why, vile Europa, linger ? why ? 
I hear my absent father cry. 
Quick, hang thee on yon ash! Thy zone 
Will serve thee — ‘hat is still thine own ; 
Or if yon cliff delight thee more, 
These death-edged rocks, that strew the shore, 
Then to the driving tempest give 
Thyself, unless thou ’dst rather live 
A bondslave, carding servile wool, 
*Neath some barbarian princess’ rule, 
And brook, though sprung of royal race, 
A vulgar concubine’s disgrace ! ” 


As thus she pour’d her wail on high, 
Venus the while stood laughing by, 
And to her side, with bow unstrung, 
Her boy, the rosy Cupid, clung. 
When she of mirth her fill had ta’en; 
“ This boiling rage,” she cried, “ restrain, 
Since yon detested bull shall bend 
His horns for thee at will to rend. 
Know’st not, thou art Jove’s honour’d bride ? 
Then dry thy tears, and own with pride 
Thy mighty fortune, mightier fame, 
For half the globe shall bear thy name!” 


196 ODE XXVIII. TO LYDB. 


ODE. xX. Viiis 
TO LYDE. 


What goodlier or fitter plan 

Have I for Neptune’s festal day ? 
Then forth the hoarded Czecuban, 

My Lydé, bring without delay, . 
And for a season, if you can, 

Fling wisdom’s sober saws away ! 


You see the waning light decay, 
And yet you pause and hesitate, — 
As though the day its flight would stay, — 
To pluck down from its cellar’d state 
The amphora, was stored away 
In Bibulus’s consulate. 


In alternating strains shall we 

Sing Neptune, and the deep-green hair 
Of Nereids sporting through the sea; 

And thou on curved lyre with fair 
Latona, and the shafts so free 

Of Cynthia, shalt enchant the air. 


And she, who Cnidos makes her care, 
And dwells amidst the Cyclads bright, 
And doth to Paphos oft repair 
With team of swans for her delight, 
Shall have our closing song; and rare 
Shall be our hymn in praise of Night. 


ODE XXIX. TO MAECENAS. 107 


ODE XXIX. 
TO MECENAS. 


Scron of Tuscan kings, in store 
I’ve laid a cask of mellow wine, 
That never has been broach’d before. 
I’ve roses, too, for wreaths to twine, 
And Nubian nut, that for thy hair 
An oil shall yield of fragrance rare. 


Then linger not, but hither wend! 
Nor always from afar survey 

Dank Tibur’s leafy heights, my friend, 
The sloping lawns of AMsula, 

And mountain peaks of Circe’s son, 

The parricidal Telegon. 


The plenty quit, that only palls, 
And, turning from the cloud-capp’d pile, 
That towers above thy palace halls, 
Forget to worship for a while 
The privileges Rome enjoys, 
Her smoke, her splendour, and her noise. 


It is the rich who relish best 
To dwell at times from state aloof, 
And simple suppers, neatly dress’d, 
Beneath a poor man’s humble roof, 
With neither pall nor purple there, 
Have smoothed ere now the brow of care. 


198 


ODE XXIX. TO MAZCENAS. 


See, now Andromeda’s bright sire 
Reveals his erewhile hidden rays, 
Now Procyon flames with fiercest fire, 

Mad Leo’s star is all ablaze, 
For the revolving sun has brought 
The season round of parching drought. 


Now with his spent and languid flocks 
The wearied shepherd seeks the shade, 
The river cool, the shaggy rocks, 
That overhang the tangled glade, 
And by the stream no breeze’s gush 
Disturbs the universal hush. 


Thou dost devise with sleepless zeal 

What course may best the state beseem, 
And, fearful for the City’s weal, 

Weigh’st anxiously each hostile scheme, 
That may be hatching far away 
In Scythia, India, or Cathay. 


Most wisely Jove in thickest night 
The issues of the future veils, 

And laughs at the self-torturing wight, 
Who with imagined terrors quails. 

The present only is thine own, 

Then use it well, ere it has flown. 


All else which may by time be bred 
Is like a river of the plain, 
Now gliding gently o’er its bed 
Along to the Etruscan main, 
Now whirling onwards, fierce and fast, 
Uprooted trees, and boulders vast, 


And: flocks, and houses, all in drear 
Confusion toss’d from shore to shore, 

While mountains far, and forests near 
Reverberate the rising roar, 


ODE XXIX. TO M#CENAS. 


When lashing rains among the hills 
To fury wake the quiet rills. 


Lord of himself that man will be, 
And happy in his life alway, 

Who still at eve can say with free 
Contented soul, “ I’ve lived to-day ! 

‘Let Jove to-morrow, if he will, 

With blackest clouds the welkin fill, 


Or flood it all with sunlight pure, 
Yet from the past he cannot take 
Its influence, for that is sure, 
Nor can he mar, or bootless make 
Whate’er of rapture and delight 
The hours have borne us in their flight.” 


Fortune, who with malicious glee 
Her merciless vocation plies, 
Benignly smiling now on me, 
Now on another, bids him rise, 
And in mere wantonness of whim 
Her favours shifts from me to him. 


I laud her, whilst by me she holds, 
But if she spread her pinions swift, 
I wrap me in my virtue’s folds, 
And yielding back her every gift, 
Take refuge in the life so free 
Of bare but honest poverty. 


You will not find me, when the mast 


199 


Groans ’neath the stress of southern gales, 


To wretched pray’rs rush off, nor cast 
Vows to the great gods, lest my bales 

From Tyre or Cyprus sink, to be 

Fresh booty for the hungry sea. 


200 


" ODE XXIX. TO MACENAS. 


When others then in wild despair 
To save their cumbrous wealth essay, 
I to the vessel’s skiff repair, 
And, whilst the Twin Stars light my way, 
Safely the breeze my little craft 
Shall o’er the Egean billows watt. 


ODE XXX. TO MELPOMENE. 201 


ey AON 
TO MELPOMENE. 


I’vE reared a monument, my own, 
More durable than brass, 

Yea, kingly pyramids of stone 
In height it doth surpass. 


Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast 
Disturb its settled base, 

Nor countless ages rolling past 
Its symmetry deface. 


T shall not wholly die. Some part, 
Nor that a little, shall 

Escape the dark destroyer’s dart, 
And his grim festival. 


For long as with his Vestals mute 
Rome’s Pontifex shall climb , 
The Capitol, my fame shall shoot 

Fresh buds through future time. 


Where brawls loud Aufidus, and came 
Parch’d Daunus erst, a horde 
Of rustic boors to sway my name 
Shall be a household word ; 
9* 


202 — 


ODE XXX. TO MELPOMENE. 


As one who rose from mean estate, 
The first with poet fire 

ZKolic song to modulate 
To the Italian lyre. 


Then grant, Melpomene, thy son 
Thy guerdon proud to wear, 

And Delphic laurels duly won 
Bind thou upon my hair! 








ODE I. 


THE PAINS OF LOVE. 
ALTERED FROM BEN JONSON. 


Venus, dost thou renew a fray 

Long intermitted? Spare me, spare, I pray! 
I am not such as in the reign 

Of the good Cinara I was. Refrain, 
Sweet Love’s sour mother, him to school, 

Whom lustres ten have hardened to thy rule, 
And soft behests; and hie thee where 

Youth calls to thee with many a fondling prayer! 
More fitly — if thou seek to fire 

A bosom apt for love and young desire — 
Come, borne by bright-wing’d swans, and thus 

Revel in the house of Paulus Maximus; 
Since, noble, and of graces choice, 

For troubled clients voluble of voice, 
And lord of countless arts, afar 

Will he advance the banners of thy war. 
And when he shall with smiles behold 

His-native charms eclipse his rival’s gold, 
He will thyself in marble rear, 

Beneath a cedarn roof near Alba’s mere. 
There shall thy dainty nostril take 

In many a gum, and for thy soft ear’s sake 
Shall verse be set to harp and lute, 

And Phrygian hautboy, not without the flute. 


206 ODE I. THE PAINS OF LOVE. 


There twice a day, in sacred lays, 

- Shall youths and tender maidens sing thy praise ; 
And thrice in Salian manner beat 

The ground in cadence with their ivory feet. 
Me neither damsel now, nor boy 

Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual joy ; 
Nor glads me now the deep carouse, 

Nor with dew-dropping flowers to bind my brows. 
But why, oh why, my Ligurine, 

Flow my thin tears down these poor cheeks of mine ? 
Or why, my well-graced words among, 

With an uncomely silence fails my tongue ? 
I dream, thou cruel one, by night, 

I hold thee fast ; anon, fled with the light, 
Whether in Field of Mars thou be, 

Or Tiber’s rolling streams, I follow thee. 


OPE II. TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 207 


9) 8 i ged Ol 
TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 


Iuxvus, he, who’d rival Pindar’s fame, 
On waxen wings doth sweep 
The Empyrean steep, 

To fall like Icarus, and with his name 
Endue the glassy deep. 


Like to a mountain stream, that roars 
From bank to bank along, 
When autumn rains are ‘strong, 

So deep-mouth’d Pindar lifts his voice, and pours 
His fierce tumultuous song. 


Worthy Apollo’s laurel wreath, 
Whether he strike the lyre 
To love and young desire, 

While bold and lawless numbers grow beneath 
His mastering touch of fire; 


Or sings of gods, and monarchs sprung 
Of gods, that over threw, 
The Centaurs, hideous crew, 

And, fearless of the monster’s fiery tongue, 
The dread Chimera slew. 


208 ODE II. TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 


Or those the Eléan palm doth lift 
To heaven, for winged steed, 
Or sturdy arm decreed, 

Giving, than hundred statues nobler gift, 
The poet’s deathless meed ; 


Or mourns the youth snatch’d from his bride, 
Extols his manhood clear, 
And to the starry sphere 

Exalts his golden virtues, scattering wide 
The gloom of Orcus drear. 


When the Dircéan Swan doth climb 
Into the azure sky, 
There poised in ether high, 

He courts each gale, and floats on wing sublime, 
Soaring with steadfast eye. 


I, like the tiny bee, that sips 
The fragrant thyme, and strays 
Humming through leafy ways, 

By Tibur’s ‘seday banks, with trembling lips 
Fashion my toilsome lays. 


But thou, when up the sacred steep 
Cesar, with garlands crown’d, 
Leads the Sicambrians bound, 

With bolder hand the echoing strings shalt sweep, 
And bolder measures sound. 


Cesar, than whom a nobler son 
The Fates and Heaven’s kind powers 
Ne’er gave this earth of ours, 

Nor e’er will give, though backward time should run 
To its first golden hours. 


Thou, too, shalt sing the joyful days, 
The city’s festive throng, 
When Cesar, absent long, 


ODE II. TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 209 


At length returns, —the Forum’s silent ways, 
Serene from strife and wrong. 


Then, though in statelier power it lack, 
My voice shall swell the lay, 
And sing, “ O, glorious day, 

O day thrice blest, that gives great Cesar back 
To Rome, from hostile fray !” 


“To Triumphe!” thrice the cry ; 
“To Triumphe!” loud 
Shall shout the echoing crowd 

The city through, and to the gods on high 
Raise incense like a cloud. 


Ten bulls shall pay thy sacrifice, 
With whom ten kine shall bleed, 
I to the fane will lead 

A yearling of the herd, of modest size, 
From the luxuriant mead, 


Horn’d like the moon, when her pale light, 
Which three brief days have fed, 
She trimmeth, and, dispread 

On his broad brows a spot of snowy white, 
All else a tawny red. 


210 ODE Ill. TO MELPOMENE. 


ODE ii 
TO MELPOMENE. 


THE man whom thou, bright Muse of song, 
Didst at his birth regard with smiling calm, 

Shall win no glory in the Isthmian throng, 
From lusty wrestlers bearing off the palm, 

Nor ever, reining steed of fire, shall he 

In swift Achaian car roll on victoriously. 


Nor him shall warfare’s stern renown, 

Nor baffled menaces of mighty kings, 
Bear to the Capitol with laural crown ; 

But streams that kiss with gentle murmurings 
Rich Tibur’s vale, — thick wood, and mossy brake, 
Him of the Zolian lyre shall worthy master make. 


At Rome, of all earth’s cities queen, 
Men deign to rank me in the noble press 
Of bards beloved of man; and now, I ween, 
Doth envy’s rancorous tooth assail me less. 
O thou loved Muse, who temperest the swell 
And modulated noise of the sweet golden shell! 


O thou, who canst at will endow 
Mute fish with swanlike voices soft and sweet, 
°T is all thy gift, that, as they pass me now, 
Men point me to their fellows on the street, 
As lord and chief of Roman minstrelsy ; 
Yes, that I sing and please, if please, is due to thee. 


ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 211 


ODE IV. 
THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 


Lixf as the thunder-bearing bird, 
(On whom o’er all the fowls of air 
Dominion was by Jove conferr’d, 
Because with loyal care 
He bore away to heaven young Ganymede the fair,) 


Whom native vigour and the rush 
Of youth have spurr’d to quit the nest, 
And skies of blue, in springtide’s flush 
Entice aloft to breast 
The gales he fear’d before his lordly plumes were 
drest, 


Now swooping, eager for his prey, 
Spreads havoc through the flutter’d fold, — 
Straight, fired by love of food and fray, 
In grapple fierce and bold 
The struggling dragons rends ev’n in their rocky hold: 
Or like the lion’s whelp, but now 
Wean’d from his tawny mother’s side, 
By tender kidling on the brow 
Of some green slope espied, 
Whose unflesh’d teeth she knows will in her blood 
be dyed ; 


212 ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 


So dread, so terrible in war 
Our noble Drusus shew’d, when through 
The Rheetian Alpine glens afar 
His conquering eagles flew, 
And swiftly the appall’d Vindelici o’erthrew. 


Whence came their custom, — in the night 
Of farthest time it flourish’d there, — 
With Amazonian axe to fight, 
To question I forbear ; 
Nor everything to know, may any mortal dare; 


But this I] know; their hosts, that still, 
Where’er they came, victorious fought, 
In turn by that young hero’s skill 
Revanquish’d, have been taught 
To feel what marvels may of enterprise be wrought 


By valiant heart and vigorous head, 
In home auspicious train’d to power, 
What by the noble spirit fed 
In Nero’s sons by our 
Augustus, who on them a father’s care did shower. 


*T is of the brave and good alone 
That good and brave men are seed; 
The virtues, which their sires have shewn, 
Are found in steer and steed ; 
Nor do the eagles fierce the gentle ringdove breed. 


Yet training quickens power inborn, ~ 
And culture nerves the soul for fame ; 
But he must live a life of scorn, 
Who bears a noble name, 
Yet blurs it with the soil of infamy and shame. 


What thou, Rome, dost the Neros owe, 
Let dark Metaurus’ river say, 
And Asdrubal, thy vanquish’d foe, 


ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 213 


And that auspicious day, 
Which through the scatter’d gloom broke forth with 
smiling ray. 


When joy again to Latium came, 
Nor longer through her towns at ease 
The fatal Lybian swept, like flame 
Among the forest trees ; 
Or Eurus’ headlong gust across Sicilian seas. 


Thenceforth, for with success they toil’d, 
Rome’s youth in vigour wax’d amain, 
And temples ravaged and despoil’d 
By Punic hordes profane 
Upraised within their shrines beheld their gods again. 


Till spoke false Hannibal at length ; 
“ Like stags, of ravening wolves the prey, 
Why rush to grapple with their strength, 
From whom to steal away 
The loftiest triumph is, they leave for us to-day ? 


“ That race, inflexible as brave, 
From Ilium quench’d in flames who bore 
Across the wild Etruscan wave 
Their babes, their grandsires hoar, 
And all their sacred things, to the Ausonian shore, 


“ Like oak, by sturdy axes lopp’d 
Of all its boughs, which once the brakes 
Of shaggy Algidus o’ertopp’d, 
Its loss its glory makes, 
And from the very steel fresh strength and spirit takes. 


“ Not Hydra, cleft through all its trunk, 
With fresher vigour wax’d and spread, 
Till even Alcides’ spirit shrunk ; 
Nor yet hath Coilchis dread, 
Or Echionean Thebes more fatal monster bred. 


214 ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 


“In ocean plunge it, and more bright 
It rises; scatter it, and lo! 
Its unscathed victors it will smite 
With direful overthrow, 
And Rome’s proud dames shall tell of many a routed 
foe. 


‘No messengers in boastful pride 
Will I to Carthage send again ; 
Our every hope, it died, it died, 
When Asdrubal was slain, 
And with his fall our name’s all-conquering star did 
wane. 


“No peril, but the Claudian line 
Will front and master it, for they 
Are shielded by Jove’s grace divine, 
And counsels sage alway 
Their hosts through war’s rough paths successfully 
convey |” 


ODE VY. TO AUGUSTUS. 215 


ODE. Vv. 
TO AUGUSTUS. 


From gods benign descended, thou 
Best guardian of the fates of Rome, 
Too long already from thy home, 

Hast thou, dear chief, been absent now; 


O then return, the pledge redeem, 
Thou gay’st the Senate, and once more 
Its light to all the land restore ; 

For when thy face, like spring-tide’s gleam, 


Its brightness on the people sheds, 
Then glides the day more sweetly by, 
A brighter blue pervades the sky, 

The sun a richer radiance spreads! 


As on her boy the mother calls, 
Her boy, whom envious tempests keep 
Beyond the vex’d Carpathian deep, 
From his dear home, till winter falls, 


And still with vow and pray’r she cries, 
Still gazes on the winding shore, 
So yearns the country evermore 

For Cesar, with fond, wistful eyes. 


216 


ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS. 


For safe the herds range field and fen, 
Full-headed stand the shocks of grain, 
Our sailors sweep the peaceful main, 

And man can trust his fellow-men. 


No more adulterers stain our beds, 
Laws, morals both that taint efface, 
The husband in the child we trace, 
And close on crime sure vengeance treads. 


The Parthian, under Cesar’s reign, 
Or icy Scythian, who can dread, 
Or all the tribes barbarian bred 

By Germany, or ruthless Spain ? 


Now each man, basking on his slopes, 
Weds to his widow’d trees the vine, 
Then, as he gaily quaffs his wine, 

Salutes thee God of all his hopes; 


And prayers to thee devoutly sends, 
With deep libations ; and, as Greece 
Ranks Castor and great Hercules, 

Thy godship with his Lares blends. 


O, may’st thou on Hesperia shine, 
Her chief, her joy, for many a day ! 
Thus, dry-lipp’d, thus at morn we pray, 
Thus pray at eve, when flush’d with wine! 


ODE VI. IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 217 


ODE VI. 
IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 


THOU god, who art potent that tongue to chastise, 

Which e’er by its vaunts the Immortals defies, 

As well as the sad offspring of Niobe knew, | 

And Tityus, profanest of ravishers too, 

And Phthian Achilles, who well-nigh o’ercame 

Proud Troy, of all warriors the foremost in fame, 

Yet ne’er with thyself to be match’d; for though he 

Was begotten of Thetis, fair nymph of the sea, 

And shook the Dardaniat turrets with fear, 

As he crash’d through the fray with his terrible 
spear, 

Like a pine, by the biting steel struck and down 
cast, 

Or cypress o’erthrown by the hurricane blast, 

Far prostrate he fell, and in Teucrian dust 

His locks all dishevell’d ignobly were thrust. 

He would not, shut up in the horse, that was feign’d 

To be vow’d to the rites of Minerva, have deign’d 

In their ill-timed carouse on the Trojans to fall, 

When the festival dance siaddend Priam’s high 
hall ; 

No! He to the captives remorseless, — O shame! 

In the broad face of day to Greek fagot and flame 

Their babes would have flung, yea, as ruthless a 
doom 

Would have wreak’d upon those who still slept in 
the womb, 

10 


218 ODEVI. IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 


If won by sweet Venus’ entreaties and thine, 

The Sire of the Gods, with a bounty benign, 

A city had not to Auneas allow’d, 

To stand through the ages triumphant and proud! 

Thou, who taught’st keen Thalia the plectrum to 
uide, 

Thou, who lavest thy tresses in Xanthus’s tide, 

O beardless Agyieus, uphold, I implore, 

The fame of the Daunian Muse evermore, 

For ’t was thou didst inspire me with poesy’s flame, 

Thou gav’st me the art of the bard, and his name! 


Ye virgins, the foremost in rank and in race, 
Ye boys, who the fame of your ancestry grace, 
Fair wards of the Delian goddess, whose bow 
Lays the swift-footed lynx and the antelope low, 
To the Lesbian measure keep time with your feet, 
And sing in accord with my thumb in its beat; 
Hymn the son of Latona in cadence aright, 
Hymn duly the still-waxing lamp of the night, 
That with plentiful fruitage the season doth cheer, 
And speeds the swift months on to girdle the year! 


And thou, who art chief of the chorus to-day, 
Soon borne home a bride in thy beauty shalt say, 
“ When the cyclical year brought its festival days, 
My voice led the hymn of thanksgiving and praise, 
So sweet the Immortals to hear it were fain, 

And ’t was Hs oece the poet who taught me the 
strain !” 


ODE VII. TO TORQUATUS. 219 


ODE VII. 
TO TORQUATUS. ° 


THE snows have fled, and to the meadows now 
_ Returns their grass, their foliage to the trees; 
Earth dons another garb, and dwindling low 
Between their wonted banks the rivers seek the 
seas. 


The Graces with the Nymphs their dances twine, 
Unzoned, and heedless of the amorous air ; 
Read in the shifting year, my friend, a sign, 
That change and death attend all human hope 
and care. 


Winter dissolves beneath the breath of Spring, 
Spring yields to Summer, which shall be no more, 
When Autumn spreads her fruits thick-clustering, 
And then comes Winter back, — bleak, icy-dead, 
and hoar. 


But moons revolve, and all again is bright : 
We, when we fall, as fell the good and just 
Zineas, wealthy Tullus, Ancus wight, 
Are but a nameless shade, and some poor grains 
of dust. 


Who knows, if they who all our Fates control, 
Will add a morrow to thy brief to-day ? 


« 


220 ODE VII. TO TORQUATUS. 


Then think of this, — What to a friendly soul 
Thy hand doth give shall ’scape thine heir’s rapa- 
cious sway. 


When thou, Torquatus, once hast vanish’d hence, 
And o’er thee Minos’ great decree is writ, 
Nor ancestry, nor fire-lipp’d eloquence, 
Nor all thy store of wealth to give thee back 
were fit. 


For even Diana from the Stygian gloom 
Her chaste Hippolytus no more may gain, 
And dear Pirithous must bide his doom, 
For Theseus’ arm is frail to rend dark Lethe’s 
chain. 


ODE VIII. TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 221 


Col WB Odea" BG 
TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 


Cups on my friends I would freely bestow, 

Dear Censorinus, and bronzes most rare, 
Tripods carved richly, in Greece long ago 

The guerdons of heroes, for them I would spare ; 


Nor should the worst of my gifts be thine own, 
If in my household art’s marvels were rife, 
Hero or god, wrought by Scopas in stone, 
Or by Parrhasius coloured to life. 


But unto me no such dainties belong, 
Nor of them either hast thou any dearth: 
Song is thy joy, I can give thee a song, 
Teach, too, the gift’s all unmatchable worth. 


Not marbles graven with glorious scrolls 
Penn’d by a nation with gratitude due, 

Records, in which our great warriors’ souls 
Tameless by death ever flourish anew! 


Not flying enemies, no, nor with shame 
Hannibal’s menaces back on him hurl’d, 

Not fraudful Carthage expiring in flame, 
Blazon his glory more bright to the world, 


222 ODE VIII TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 


His surname from Africa vanquish’d who drew, 
Than doth the Calabrian Muse by its lays: 

Nor, if no song tell your triumphs, will you 
Reap the full guerdon of life-giving praise. 


What were great Mavors’ and Ilia’s son, 

Had envious silence his merits suppress’d ? 
Styx’s dark flood had o’er AMacus run, 

But song bore him on to the Isles of the Blest. 


Dower’d by the Muse with a home in the sky, 
Ne’er can he perish, whom she doth approve : 
Dauntless Alcides thus revels on high, 
Guest at the coveted banquets of Jove. 


So the Twin Stars, as through tempests they glow, 
Save the spent seaman, when most he despairs; 

Bacchus, with vine-leaves fresh garlanded, so 
Brings to fair issues his votary’s pray’rs. 


ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS. 223 


24 BS Ob a 
TO LOLLIUS. 


NEVER deem, they must perish, the verses, which I, 
Who was born where the waters of Aufidus roar, 

To the chords of the lyre with a cunning ally 
Unknown to the bards of my country before ! 


Though Meonian Homer unrivall’d may reign, 
Yet are not the Muses Pindaric unknown, 

The threats of Alczeus, the Ceian’s sad strain, 
Nor stately Stesichorus’ lordlier tone. 


Unforgot is the-sportive Anacreon’s lay, 

Still, still sighs the passion, unquench’d is the fire, 
Which the Lesbian maiden in days far away 

From her love-laden bosom breathed into the lyre. 


Not alone has Lacenian Helena’s gaze 
Been fix’d by the gloss of a paramour’s hair, 
By vestments with gold and with jewels ablaze, 
By regal array, and a retinue rare ; 


Nor did Teucer first wield the Cydonian bow, 
Nor was Troy by a foe but once harass’d and 
wrung ; 
Nor Idomeneus only, or Sthenelus show 
Such prowess in war as deserved to be sung; 


224 ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS. 


Nor yet was redoubtable Hector, nor brave 
Deiphobus first in the hard-stricken field 
By the dint of the strokes, which they took and they 
gave, 
Their babes and the wives of their bosoms to shield. 


Many, many have lived, who were valiant in fight, 
Before Agamemnon; but all have gone down, 

Unwept and unknown, in the darkness of night, 
For lack of a poet to hymn their renown. 


Hidden worth differs little from sepulchred ease, 
But, Lollius, thy fame in my pages shall shine; 

I will not let pale-eyed Forgetfulness seize 
These manifold noble achievements of thine. 


Thou, my friend, hast a soul, by whose keen-sighted 
range 
Events afar off in their issues are seen, 
A soul, which maintains itself still through each 
change 
Of good or ill fortune erect and serene. 


Of rapine and fraud the avenger austere, 

To wealth and its all-snaring blandishments proof, 
The Consul art thou not of one single year, 

But as oft as a judge, from all baseness aloof, 


Thou ib made the expedient give place to the 
And ‘flan back the bribes of the guilty with 

And fs iets crowds warring against thee with 
Thy rere arms hast triumphantly borne. 


Not him, who of much that men prize is possess’d, 
May’st thou fitly call “blest”; he may claim to 
enjoy 


ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS. 225 


More fitly, more truly, the title of “ blest,” 
Who wisely the gifts of the gods can employ ; — 


Who want, and its hardships, and slights can with- 
stand 
And shrinks from disgrace as more bitter than 
death; _ 
Not he for the friends whom he loves, or the land 
Of his fathers will dread to surrender his breath. 


10* © 


226 ODE X. TO A CRUEL BEAUTY. 


ODE X. 
TO A CRUEL BEAUTY. 


Au, cruel, cruel still, 
And yet divinely fair, 

When Time with fingers chill 
Shall thin the wavy hair, 

Which now in many a wanton freak 
Around thy shoulders flows, 

When fades the bloom, which on thy cheek 
Now shames the blushing rose ; 


Ah, then as in thy glass 
Thou gazest in dismay, 

Thou ‘It ery, “ Alas! Alas! 
Why feel I not to-day, 

As in my maiden bloom, when I 
Unmoved heard lovers moan ; 

Or, now that I would win them, why 
Is all my beauty flown?” * 


ODE XI. TO PHYLLIS. 237 


eB OAR 
TO PHYLLIS. 


1 HAVE laid in a cask of Albanian wine, 
Which nine mellow summers have ripened and 
more ; 
In my garden, dear Phyllis, thy brows to entwine, 
Grows the brightest of parsley in plentiful store. 
There is ivy to gleam on thy dark glossy hair ; 
My plate, newly burnish’d, enlivens my rooms; 
And the altar, athirst for its victim, is there, 
Enwreath’d with chaste vervain, and choicest of 
blooms. 


Every hand in the household is busily toiling, 
And hither and thither boys bustle and girls; 
Whilst, up from the hearth-fires careering and coiling, 
The smoke round the rafter-beams languidly curls. 
Let the joys of the revel be parted between us! 
”T is the Ides of young April, the day which divides 
The month, dearest Phyllis, of ocean-sprung Venus, 
A day to me dearer than any besides. 


And well may I prize it, and hail its returning — 
My own natal day not more hallowed nor dear — 
For Mecenas, my friend, dates from this happy 
morning 
The life which has swell’d to a lustrous career. 
You sigh for young Telephus: better forget him! 
His rank is not yours, and the gaudier charms 
Of a girl that’s both wealthy and wanton benet him, 
And hold him the fondest of slaves in her arms. 


228 ODE XI. TO PHYLLIS. 





Remember fond Phaethon’s fiery sequel, 
And heavenward-aspiring Bellerophon’s fate ; 
And pine not for one who would ne’er be your equal, 
But level your hopes to a lowlier mate. 
So, come, my own Phyllis, my heart’s latest treas- 
ure, — 
Ah, ne’er for another this bosom shall long, — 
And I'll teach, while your loved voice re-echoes the 
measure, 
How to lighten fell care with the cadence of song. 


ODE XII. TO VIRGIL. : 


bo 
bo 
< 


ODE XII. 
TO VIRGIL. 


Now the soft gales of Thrace, that sing peace to 


the ocean, 
Spring’s handmaids, are wafting the barks from 
the shore, 
There is life in the meads, in the groves there is 
motion, 


And snow-swollen torrents are raving no more. 


Now buildeth her nest, whilst for Itys still sadly 
She mourns, the poor bird, who was fated to shame 

The line of old Cecrops forever, by madly 
Avenging the brutal barbarian’s flame. 


On the young grass reclined, near the murmur of 
fountains, 
The shepherds are piping the songs of the plains, 
And the god, who loves Arcady’s purple-hued moun- 
tains, 
The God of the Flocks, is entranced by their 
strains. 


And thirst, O my Virgil, comes in with the season ; 
But if you’d have wine from the Calian press, 
You must lure it from me by some nard, — and with 

reason, — 
Thou favourite bard of our youthful noblesse. 


230 ’ODE XII. TO VIRGIL. 


Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius 
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare 
To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and deli- 
cious . 
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care. 


If you’d dip in such joys, come — the better, the 
quicker ! — 
But remember the fee — for it suits not my ends, 
To let you make havoc, scot-free, with my liquor, 
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed 
friends. 


To the winds with base lucre and pale melan- 
choly ! — 
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, 
Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly, — 
’T is delightful at times to be somewhat insane | 


ODE XIII. TO LYCE. 231 


Oo DE-XITI. 
TO LYCE. 


Lycz, the gods have heard my prayer, 
The gods have heard your ill-used lover, 
You still would be thought both young and fair, 
But you ’ve lost your looks, and your hey-day’s 
over: 
You may tipsily wanton, and quaver, and trill, 
But the love you would waken will slumber on still. 


In the dimples of Chia’s fair cheek he lies, 
Chia that lilts to her lyre so sweetly ; 
From crab-trees insipid and old he flies, 
And you, Lycée, you he forswears completely ; 
* For your teeth don’t keep, and your wrinkles are 
deep, 
And your forehead is snow capp’d, and rugged, and 
steep. 


Not purple of Cos, nor gems star-bright, 
Can recall the days that are gone and going ; 
O, where is the bloom and the smile of light, 
And the step of grace, self-poised and flowing ? 
Of her, who my soul of itself bereft, 
Who fired all with passion, ah, what is left ? 


232 ODE XIII. TO LYCE. 


Thou to Cinara next for charm of face, 

And love-luring wiles on my heart wert graven ; 
But Cinara died in her youth’s fresh grace, 

Whilst thou art like to outlive the raven, 
Dying down, a spent torch, into ashes and smoke, 
The butt of each roystering youngster’s joke | 


ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. 233 


ODE XIV. 
TO AUGUSTUS. 


-How shall the Fathers, how 
Shall the*Quiritians, O Augustus, now, 
Intent their honours in no niggard wise 
Upon thee to amass, 
By storied scroll, or monumental brass 
Thy virtues eternise ? 


O thou who art, wherever shines the sun 

On lands where man a dwelling-place hath won, 
Of princes greatest far, 

Thee the Vindelici, who ever spurn’d 

Our Latian rule, of late have learn’d 
To know supreme in war! 


For ’t was with soldiers thou hadst form’d, 
That Drusus, greatly resolute, 

On many a hard-won field o’erthrew the wild 
Genaunians, and the Brenni fleet of foot, 

And all their towering strongholds storm’d, 
On Alps tremendous piled. 


Anon to deadliest fight 
The elder Nero press’d, 
And, by auspicious omens bless’d, 
Scatter’d the giant Rheetian hordes in flight. 
Himself, that glorious day, 
The foremost in the fray, 


234 ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS... 


With havoc dire did he 
O’erwhelm that banded crowd 
Of hearts in stern devotion vow’d 

To die or to be free! ; 
Like Auster, lashing into ire 

The tameless ocean-waves, when through 
The driving rack the Pleiad choir 

Flash suddenly i in view, 

+ So furiously he dash’d 

Upon his serried foes, 

And where their balefires thickest rose, 
With foaming war-steed crash’d. 


As bull-shaped Aufidus, who layes , 
Apulian Daunus’ realm, 
Is whirl’d along, when o’er his banks 
He eddies and he raves, 
Designing to o’erwhelm 
The cultured fields with deluge and dismay, 
So Claudius swept the iron “ranks, geil 
Of the barbarian host, Grins 
And where from van to rear he clove his way, 
Along his track the mangled foemen Tay, 
Nor did one squadron lost 
The lustre dim of that victorious fray. 


But thine the legions were, and thine 
The counsels, and the auspices divine, 
For on the self-same day, 
That’ suppliant Alexandria had flung 
Her port and empty palace wide to thee, 
Did Fortune, who since then through lustres three 
Had to thy banners smiling clung, 
Bring our long wars to a triumphant close, _ 
‘And for thee proudly claim 
The honour long desired, the glorious fame — 
Of countless vanquish’d foes, 
And vanquish’d empires bow’d in homes to ‘hy 
sway | 


ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. 235 


Thee the Cantabrian, unsubdued till now, 
The Mede, the Indian, — thee 
The Scythian roaming free, 
Unwedded to a home, 
With wondering awe obey, 
O mighty Caesar, thou 
Of Italy and sovereign Rome 
The present shield, the ; guardian, and the stay ! 
Thee Nile, who hides from mortal eyes 
The springs where he doth rise, 
Thee Ister, arrowy Tigris thee, 
Thee, too, the monster-spawning sea, 
Which round far Britain’s islands breaks in foam, 
Thee Gallia, whom no form of death alarms, 
Iberia thee, through all her swarms 
Of rugged warriors, hears ; 
Thee the ‘Sicambrian, who 
Delights in carnage, too, 
Now laying down his arms 
Submissively reveres ! 


236 - ODE XV. TO AUGUSTUS. — 


ODE XY. 
TO AUGUSTUS. 


To vanquish’d town and battle fray 

I wish’d to dedicate my lay, 

When Phebus smote his lyre, and sang, 
And in his strain this warning rang, 
“Spread not your tiny sails to sweep 
The surges of the Tyrrhene deep!” 


Thy era, Cesar, which doth bless 
Our plains anew with fruitfulness, 
Back to our native skies hath borne 
Our standards from the temples torn 
Of haughty Parthia, and once more, 
The hurricane of warfare o’er, 
Hath closed Quirinian Janus’ fane, 
On lawless license cast a rein, 
And, purging all the land from crime, 
Recall’d the arts of olden time ; 
Those arts, by which the name and power 
Of Italy grew hour by hour, 
And Rome’s renown and grandeur spread 
To sunrise from Sol’s western bed. 


While Cesar rules, no civil jar, 
Nor violence our ease shall mar, 
Nor rage, which swords for carnage whets, 
And feuds ’twixt hapless towns begets. 


ODE XV. TO AUGUSTUS. 237 


The Julian Edicts who shall break ? 
Not they, who in the Danube slake 
Their thirst, nor Serican, nor Gete, 
Nor Persian, practised in deceit, 
Nor all the ruthless tribes, beside 
The Danube’s darkly-rolling tide. 


And we, on working days and all 
Our days of feast and festival, 
Shall with our wives and children there, 
Approaching first the gods in pray’r, 
Whilst jovial Bacchus’ gifts we pour, 
_ Sing, as our fathers sang of yore, 
To Lybian flutes, which answer round, 
Of chiefs for mighty worth renown’d, 
Of Troy, Anchises, and the line 
Of Venus evermore benign | 





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THE EPODES. 





EPODE I. 
TO MECENAS. 


Ir thou in thy Liburnians go 

Amid the bulwark’d galleys of the foe, 
Resolved, my friend Mzcenas, there 

All Cesar’s dangers as thine own to share, 
What shall we do, whose life is gay 

Whilst thou art here, but sad with thee away ? 
Obedient to thy will, shall we 

Seek ease, not sweet, unless ’t is shared by thee ? 
Or shall we with such spirit share 

Thy toils, as men of gallant heart should bear ? 
Bear them we will; and Alpine peak 

Scale by thy side, or Caucasus the bleak ; 
Or follow thee with dauntless breast 

Into the farthest ocean of the West. 
And shouldst thou ask, how I could aid 

Thy task, unwarlike I, and feebly made ? 
Near thee my fears, I answer, would 

Be less, than did I absent o’er them brood ; 
As of her young, if they were left, 

The bird more dreads by snakes to be bereft, 
Than if she brooded on her nest, 

Although she could not thus their doom arrest. 
Gladly, in hopes your grace to gain, 

Ill share in ae or any fresh campaign ! 

1 bs 


242 EPODE I. TO MAZCENAS. 


Not, trust me, that more oxen may, 
Yoked in my ploughshares, turn the yielding clay, 
Nor that, to ’scape midsummer’s heat, 
My herds may to Lucanian pastures sweet 
From my Calabrian meadows change ; 
Nor I erect upon the sunny range 
Of Tusculum, by Circe’s walls, 
A gorgeous villa’s far;seen marble halls ! 
Enough and more thy bounty has 
Bestow’d on me; I care not to amass 
Wealth either, like old Chremes in the play, 
To hide in earth, or fool, like spendthrift heir, away ! 


EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 243 


EEODE IT. 
ALPHIUS. 


Happy the man, in busy schemes unskill’d, 
Who, living simply, like our sires of old, 

Tills the few acres, which his father till’d, 
Vex’d by no thoughts of usury or gold ; 


The shrilling clarion ne’er his slumber mars, 
Nor quails he at the howl of angry seas ; 

He shuns the forum, with its wordy jars, 
Nor at a great man’s door consents to freeze. 


The tender vine-shoots, budding into life, 
He with the stately poplar-tree doth wed, 
Lopping the fruitless branches with his knife ; 
And grafting shoots of promise in their stead; 


Or in some valley, up among the hills, 
Watches his wandering herds of lowing kine, 
Or fragrant jars with liquid honey fills, 
Or shears his silly sheep in sunny shine ; 


Or when Autumnus o’er the smiling land 
Lifts up his head with rosy apples crowned, 
Joyful he plucks the pears, which erst his hand 
Graff'd on the stem they’re weighing to the 
ground ; 


244 EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 


Plucks grapes in noble clusters purple-dyed, 
A gift for thee, Priapus, and for thee, 

Father Sylvanus, where thou dost preside, 
Warding his bounds beneath thy sacred tree, 


Now he may stretch his careless limbs to rest, 
Where some old ilex spreads its sacred roof; 
Now in the sunshine lie, as likes him best, 
On grassy turf of close elastic woof. 


And streams the while glide on with murmurs low, 
And birds are singing ’mong the thickets deep, 
And fountains babble, sparkling as they flow, 
And with their noise invite to gentle sleep. 


But when grim winter comes, and o’er his grounds 
Scatters its biting snows with angry roar, 

He takes the field, and with a cry of hounds 
Hunts down into the toils the foaming boar ; 


-Or seeks the thrush, poor starveling, to ensnare, 
In filmy net with bait delusive stored, 

Entraps the travell’d crane, and timorous hare, 
Rare dainties these to glad his frugal board. 


Who amid joys like these would not forget 

The pangs which love to all its victims bears, 
The fever of the brain, the ceaseless fret, 

And all the heart’s lamentings and despairs ? 


But if a chaste and blooming wife, beside, 

His cheerful home with sweet young blossoms fills, 
Like some stout Sabine, or the sunburnt bride 

Of the lithe peasant of the Apulian hills, 


Who piles the hearth with logs well dried and old 
Against the coming of her wearied lord, 

And, when at eve the cattle seek the fold, 
Drains their full udders of the milky hoard ; 


EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 245 


And bringing forth from her well-tended store 
A jar of wine, the vintage of the year, 

Spreads an unpurchased feast, — oh then, not more 
Could choicest Lucrine oysters give me cheer, 


Or the rich turbot, or the dainty char, 
If ever to our bays the winter’s blast 
Should drive them in its fury from afar ; 
Nor were to me a welcomer repast ~ 


The Afric hen or the Ionic snipe, 
Than olives newly gathered from the tree, 
That hangs abroad its clusters rich and ripe, 
Or sorrel, that doth love the pleasant lea, 


Or mallows wholesome for the body’s need, 
Or lamb foredoom’d upon some festal day 
In offering to the guardian gods to bleed, 
Or kidling which the wolf hath mark’d for prey. 


‘What joy, amidst such feasts, to see the sheep, » 
Full of the pasture, hurrying homewards come, 
To see the wearied oxen, as they creep, 
Dragging the upturn’d ploughshare slowly home ! 


Or, ranged around the bright and blazing hearth,, 
To see the hinds, a house’s surest wealth, 
Beguile the evening with their simple mirth, 
And all the cheerfulness of rosy health! 


Thus spake the miser Alphius; and, bent 
Upon a country life, called in amain 

The money he at usury had lent ; 
But ere the month was out, ’t was lent again. 


246 EPODE Ill... TO MZCENAS. 


EPODE III. 
TO MECENAS. 


Ir his old father’s throat any impious sinner 
Has cut with unnatural hand to the bone, 
Give him garlic, more noxious than hemlock, at 
dinner ; 
Ye gods : The strong stomachs that reapers must 
own ! 


With what poison is this, that my vitals are heated ? 
By viper’s blood — certes, it cannot be less — 
Stew’d into the potherbs, can I have been cheated ? 
Or Canidia, did she cook the damnable mess ? 


When Medea was smit by the handsome sea-rover, 
Who in beauty outshone all his Argonaut band, 
This mixture she took to lard Jason all over, 
And so tamed the fire-breathing bulls to his hand. 


With this her fell presents she died and infected, 
On his innocent leman avenging the slight 

Of her terrible beauty, forsaken, neglected, 
And then on her car, dragon-wafted, took flight. 


Never star on Apulia, the thirsty and arid, 
Exhaled a more baleful or pestilent dew, 

And the gift which invincible Hercules carried, 
Burn’d not to his bones more remorselessly through. 


EPODE III. TO MZCENAS. 247 


Should you e’er long again for such relish as this is, 
Devoutly I’ll pray, friend Mecenas, I vow, 
With her hand that your mistress arrest all your 
kisses, 
And lie as far off as the couch will allow. 


248 EPODE IV. TO MENAS. 


EPODE IV. 
TO MENAS. 


Suc hate as nature meant to be 

*Twixt lamb and wolf feel I for thee, 
Whose hide by Spanish scourge is tann’d, 
And legs still bear the fetter’s brand ! 
Though of your gold you strut so vain, 
Wealth cannot change the knave in grain. 
How! See you not, when striding down 
The Via Sacra in your gown 

Good six ells wide, the passers there 
Turn on you with indignant stare ? 
“This wretch,” such jibes your ear invade, 
“ By the triumvir’s scourges flay’d, 

Till even the crier shirk’d his toil, 

Some thousand acres ploughs of soil 
Falernian, and with his nags 

Wears out the Appian highway’ s flags ; 
Nay on the foremost seats, despite 

Of Otho, sits and apes the knight. 

What boots it to despatch a fleet 

So large, so heavy, so complete 

Against a gang of rascal knaves, 

Thieves, corsairs, buccaniers, and slaves, 
Tf villain of such vulgar breed 

Is in the foremost rank to lead ?” 


EPODE V. THE WITCHES’ ORGY. 249 


EPODE V. 
THE WITCHES’ ORGY. 


“ Wuat, O ye gods, who from the sky 
Rule earth and human destiny, 
What means this coil? And wherefore be 
These cruel looks all bent on me ? 
Thee by thy children I conjure, 
If at their birth Lucina pure 
Stood by ; thee by this vain array 
Of purple, thee by Jove I pray, 
Who views with anger deeds so foul, 
Why thus on me like stepdame scowl, 
Or like some wild beast, that doth glare 
Upon the hunter from its lair ?” 


As thus the boy in wild distress, 
Bewail’d of bulla stripp’d and dress, — 
So fair, that ruthless breasts of Thrace 
Had melted to behold his face, — 
Canidia, with dishevell’d hair, 

And short crisp vipers coiling there, 
Beside a fire of Colchos stands, 
And her attendant hags commands, 
To feed the flames with fig-trees torn 
From dead men’s sepulchres forlorn, 
With dismal cypress, eggs rubb’d o’er 
With filthy toads’ envenom’d gore, 
With screech-owls’ plumes, and herbs of bane, 
From far Jolchos fetch’d and Spain, 
1% 


250 EPODE VY. THE WITCHES’ ORGY. 


And fleshless bones by beldam witch 
Snatch’d from the jaws of famish’d bitch. 
And Sagana, the while, with gown 
Tuck’d to the knees, stalks up and down, 
Sprinkling in room and hall and stair 
Her magic hell-drops, with her hair 
Bristling on end, like furious boar, 

Or some sea-ur chin wash’d on shore ; 
Whilst Veia, by remorse unstay’d, 
Groans at her toil, as she with spade 
That flags not digs a pit, wherein 

The boy imbedded to the chin, 

With nothing seen save head and throat, 
Like those who in the water float, 

Shall dainties see before him set, 

A maddening appetite to whet, 

Then snatch’d away before his eyes, 
Till famish’d in despair he dies ; 

That when his glazing eyeballs should 
Have closed on the untasted food, 

His sapless marrow and dry spleen 
May drug a philtre-draught obscene. 
Nor were these all the hideous crew, 
But Ariminian Folia, too, 

Who with insatiate lewdness swells, 
And drags by her Thessalian spells 

The moon and stars down from the sky, 
Ease-loving Naples’ vows, was by ; 

And every hamlet round about 
Declares she was, beyond a doubt. 


Now forth the fierce Canidia sprang, 
And still she gnaw’d with rotten fang 
Her long sharp unpared thumb-nail. What 
Then said she ? Yea, what said she not ? 


“O Night and Dian, who with true 
And friendly eyes my purpose view, 


EPODE V. THE WITCHES’ ORGY. 251 


And guardian silence keep, whilst I 
' My secret orgies safely ply, 

Assist me now, now on my foes 

With all your wrath celestial close ! 
Whilst, stretch’d in soothing sleep, amid 
Their forests grim the beasts lie hid, 
May all Suburra’s mongrels bark 

At yon old wretch, who through the dark 
Doth to his lewd encounters crawl, 

And on him draw the jeers of all ! 

He ’s with an ointment smear’d, that is 
My masterpiece. But what is this ? 
Why, why should poisons brew’d by me 
Less potent than Medea’s be, 

By which, for love betray’d, beguiled, 
On mighty Creon’s haughty child 

She wreak’d her vengeance sure and swift, 
And vanish’d, when the robe, her gift, 
In deadliest venom steep’d and dyed, 
-Swept off in flame the new-made bride ? 
No herb there is, nor root in spot 
However wild, that I have not; 

Yet every common harlot’s bed 

Seems with some rare Nepenthe spread, 
For there he lies in swinish drowse, 

Of me oblivious, and his vows! 

He is, aha! protected well 

By some more skilful witch’s spell ! 

But, Varus, thou, (doom’d soon to know 
The rack of many a pain and woe!) 

By potions never used before 

Shalt to my feet be brought once more. 
And ’t is no Marsian charm shall be 
The spell that brings thee back to me! 
A draught I'll brew more strong, more sure, - 
Thy wandering appetite to cure; 

And sooner ’neath the sea the sky 

Shall sink, and earth upon them lie, 
Than thou not burn with fierce desire 
For me, like pitch in sooty fire!” 


252 EPODE V. THE WITCHES’ ORGY. 


On this the boy by gentle tones 
No more essay’d to move the crones, 
But wildly forth with frenzied tongue 
These curses Thyestéan flung. 
‘“‘ Your sorceries, and spells, and charms 
To man may compass deadly harms, 
But heaven’s great law of Wrong and Right 
Will never bend before their might. 
My curse shall haunt you, and my hate 
No victim’s blood shall expiate. 
But when at your behests I die, 
Like Fury of the Night will I 
From Hades come, a phantom sprite, — 
Such is the Manes’ awful might, — 
With crooked nails your cheeks Ill tear, 
And, squatting on your bosoms, seare 
With hideous fears your sleep away! 
Then shall the mob, some future day, 
Pelt you from street to street with stones, 
Till falling dead, ye filthy crones, 
The dogs and wolves, and carrion fowl, 
That make on Esquiline their prowl, 
In banquet horrible and grim 
Shall tear your bodies limb from limb, 
Nor shall my parents fail to see 
That sight, — alas, surviving me!” 


EPODE VI. TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 253 


EPODE VI. 
TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 


VILE cur, why will you late and soon 
At honest people fly ? 

You, you, the veriest poltroon 
Whene’er a wolf comes by ! 


Come on, and if your stomach be 
So ravenous for fight, 

I’m ready! Try your teeth on me, 
You ’1l find that I can bite. 


For like Molossian mastiff stout, 
Or dun Laconian hound, 

That keeps sure ward, and sharp look-out 
For all the sheepfolds round, 


Through drifted snows with ears thrown back 
I’m ready, night or day, 

To follow fearless on the track 
Of every beast of prey. 


But you, when you have made the wood. 
With bark and bellowing shake, 

If any thief shall fling you food, 
The filthy bribe will take. 


254 


EPODE VI. TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 


Beware, beware! Forevermore 
I hold such knaves in scorn, 

And bear, their wretched sides to gore, 
A sharp and ready horn ; 


Like him, whose joys Lycambes dash’d, 
Defrauding of his bride, 

Or him, who with his satire lash’d 
Old Bupalus till he died. 


What! If a churl shall snap at me, 
And pester and annoy, 

Shall I sit down contentedly, 
And blubber like a boy ? 


a 


EPODE VII. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 255 


EPODE VII. 
TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 


Au, whither would ye, dyed in guilt, thus headlong 
rush ? Or wh 

Grasp your right hands the battle-brands so recent- 
ly laid by ? 

Say, can it be, upon the sea, or yet upon the shore, 

That we have pour’d too sparingly our dearest La- 
tian gore ? 

Not that yon envious Carthage her haughty towers 
should see 

To flames devouring yielded up by the sons of Italy ; 

Or that the Briton, who has ne’er confess’d our 
prowess, may 

Descend all gyved and manacled along the Sa- 
cred Way, 

But that our Rome, in answer to Parthia’s pray’r 
and, moan, 

Should by our hands, her children’s hands, be crush’d 
and overthrown ? 

Alas! Alas! More fell is ours than wolves’ or lions’ 
rage, 

For they at least upon their kind no war unholy 
wage ! 

What power impels you? Fury blind, or demon 
that would wreak 

Revenge for your blood-guiltiness and crimes? Make 

' answer! Speak ! 


256 EPODE VII. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 


They ’re dumb, and with an ashy hue their cheeks 


and lips are dyed, 

And stricken through with conscious guilt their souls 
are stupefied ! 

’Tis even so; relentless fates the sons of Rome 

ursue, 

And his dread crime, in brother’s blood who did his 
hands imbrue ; 

For still for vengeance from the ground calls guilt- 
less Remus’ gore, 

By his dePcan NS blood to be atoned for ever- 
more 


EPODE IX. TO MAECENAS. 257 


EPODE IX. 
TO MACENAS. 


WseEv, blest Mecenas, shall we twain 
Beneath your stately roof a bowl 

Of Czcuban long-hoarded drain, 
In gladsomeness of soul, 

For our great Cesar’s victories, 
Whilst, as our cups are crown’d, 

Lyres blend their Doric melodies 
With flutes’ Barbaric sound ? 


As when of late that braggart vain, 
The self-styled ‘ Son of Neptune” fled, 
And far from the Sicilian main 
With blazing ships he sped ; 
He, who on Rome had vow’d in scorn 
The manacles to bind, 
Which he from faithless serfs had torn 
To kindred baseness kind ! 


A Roman soldier, (ne’er, oh ne’er, 
Posterity, ‘the shame avow !) 

A woman’s slave, her arms doth bear, 
And palisadoes now ; 

To wrinkled eunuchs crooks the knee, 
And now the sun beholds 

’Midst warriors’ standards flaunting free 
The vile pavilion’s folds ! 


Q 


258 


EPODE IX. TO MECENAS. 


Madden’d to view this sight of shame, 
Two thousand Gauls their horses wheel’d 
And wildly shouting Ceesar’s name, 
Deserted on the field ; 
Whilst steering leftwise o’er the sea 
The foemen’s broken fleet ~ 
Into the sheltering haven flee 
In pitiful retreat. 


Ho, Triumph! Wherefore stay ye here 
The unbroke steers, the golden cars ? 

Ho! never brought ye back his peer 
From the Jugurthine wars ! 

Nor mightier was the chief revered 
Of that old famous time, 

Who in the wreck of Carthage rear’d 
His cenotaph sublime ! 


Vanquish’d by land and sea, the foe 
His regal robes of purple shifts 
For miserable weeds of woe, 
And o’er the wild-waves drifts, 
Where Crete amid the ocean stands 
With cities many a score, 
Or where o’er Afric’s whirling sands 
The Southern tempests roar. 


Come, boy, and ampler goblets crown 
With Chian or with Lesbian wine, 

Or else our qualmish sickness drown 
In Ceecuban divine ! 

Thus let us lull our cares and sighs, 
Our fears that will not sleep, 

For Cesar, and his great emprise, 
In goblets broad and deep ! 


“ EPODE X. AGAINST M&VIUS. 


EPODE X. 
AGAINST MZEVIUS. 


Fout fall the day, when from the bay 
The vessel puts to sea, 

That carries Mevius away, 
That wretch unsavoury ! 


Mind, Auster, with appalling roar 
That you her timbers scourge ; 

Black Eurus, snap each rope and oar 
With the o’ertoppling surge ! 


Rise, Aquilo, as when the far 
High mountain-oaks ye rend ; 

When stern Orion sets, no star 
Its friendly lustre lend! 


Seethe, ocean, as when Pallas turn’d 
Her wrath from blazing Troy 

On impious Ajax’ bark, and spurn’d 
The victors in their joy! 


I see them now, your wretched crew, 
All toiling might and main, 

And you, with blue and deathlike hue, 
Imploring Jove in vain ! 


259 


260 


EPODE X. AGAINST MZVIUS. 


“Mercy, O mercy! Spare me, pray!” 
With craven moan ye call, 

When founders in the Ionian bay 
Your bark before the squall : 


But if your corpse a banquet forms 
For sea-birds, I ’ll devote 

Unto the powers that rule the storms 
A lamb and liquorish goat. 


-EPODE XI. THE LOVER’S CONFESSION. 261 


EPODE XI. 
THE LOVER’S CONFESSION. 


O Pettivs! no pleasure have I, as of yore, 

In scribbling of verse, for I’m smit to the core 

By love, cruel love, who delights, false deceiver, 

In keeping this poor heart of mine in a fever. 

Three winters the woods of their honours have 
stripp’d, 

Since I for Inachia cease to be hypp’d. 

Good heavens! I can feel myself blush to the ears, 

When I think how I drew on my folly the sneers 

And talk of the town; how, at parties, my stare 

Of asinine silence, and languishing air, 

The tempest of sighs from the depths of my breast, 

All the love-stricken swain to my comrades confess’d. 

*‘ No genius,” I groan’d, whilst you kindly condoled, 

“Tf poor, has the ghost of a chance against gold ; 

But if”— Here I grew more confiding and plain, 

As the fumes of the wine mounted up to my brain — 

“Tf my manhood shall rally, and fling to the wind 

These maudlin regrets which enervate the mind, 

But soothe not the wound, then the shame of defeat 

From a strife so unequal shall make me retreat.” 

Thus, stern as a judge, having valiantly said, 

Being urged by yourself to go home to my bed, 

I staggered with steps, not so steady as free, 

To a door which, alas! shows no favour to me; 


262 EPODE XI. THE LOVER'S CONFESSION. 


And there on that threshold of beauty and scorn, 

Heigho! my poor bones lay and ached till the 
morn. 

Now I’m all for Lycisca — more mincing than she 

Can no little woman in daintiness be — 

A love, neither counsel can cure, nor abuse, 

Though I feel, that with me it is playing the deuce, 

But which a new fancy for some pretty face, 

Or tresses of loose-flowing amber may chase. 


EPODE XIII. TO HIS FRIENDS. 263 


EPODE XIII. 
TO HIS FRIENDS. 


Wirn storm and wrack the sky is black, and slegt 
and dashing rain 

With all the cather'd streams of heaven are deluging 
the plain ; 

Now roars the sea, the forests roar with the shrill 
north-wind of Thrace, 

Then let us snatch the hour, my friends, the hour 
that flies apace, 

Whilst yet the bloom is on our cheeks, and right- 
fully we may 

With song oe jest and jollity keep wrinkled age 
at ba 

Bring forth oe jar of lordly wine, whose years my 
own can mate, 

Its ruby juices stain’d the vats in Torquatus’ consu- 


late ! 

No word of anything that’s sad; whate’er may be 
amiss 

The Gods belike will change to some vicissitude of 
bliss ! 


With Achzemenian nard bedew our locks, and 
troubles dire 
Subdue to rest in every breast with the Cyllenian 


lyre! 


° 


264 | EPODE XIII. TO HIS FRIENDS. 


So to his peerless pupil once the noble Centaur 
sang : 


e Invincible, yet mortal, who from Goddess ‘Thetis 
sprang, 

Thee waits Assaracus’s realm, where arrowy Simois 
glides, 


That realm which chill Scamander’s rill with scanty 
stream divides, 

Whence never more shalt thou return, — the Parce 
so decree, 

Nor shall thy blue-eyed mother home again e’er 
carry thee. 

Then chase with wine and song divine each grief 
and trouble there, 

The sweetest, surest antidotes of beauty-marring 

. care!” 


EPODE XIV. TO MAECENAS. 265 


EPODE XIV. 
TO MECENAS. 


Way to the core of my inmost sense 
Doth this soul-palsying torpor creep, . 
As though I had quaffed to the lees a draught 
Charged with the fumes of Lethean sleep ? 
O gentle Mecenas ! you kill me, when 
For the poem I’ve promised so long you dun me ; 
I have tried to complete it again and again, 
But in vain, for the ban of the god is on me. 


So Bathyllus of Samos fired, they tell, 

The breast of the Teian bard, who often 
His passion bewail’d on the hollow shell, 

In measures he stay’d not to mould and soften, 
You, too, are on fire ; but if fair thy flame 

As she who caused Ilion its fateful leaguer, 
Rejeice in thy lot; Iam pining, O shame ! 

For Phryné, that profligate little intriguer. 


12 


266 EPODE XV. TO N.EZERA. 


EPODE XV. 
TO NEERA. 


*T ws night ! — let me recall to thee that night! 
The moon, slow-climbing the unclouded sky, 

Amid the lesser stars was shining bright, 
When in the words I did adjure thee by, 

Thou with thy clinging arms, more tightly knit 
Around me than the ivy clasps the oak, 

Didst breathe a vow—mock the great gods with it— 
A vow which, false one, thou hast foully broke ; 
That while the raven’d wolf should hunt the flocks, 

The shipman’s foe, Orion, vex the sea, 
And Zephyrs lift the unshorn Apollo’s locks, 
So long wouldst thou be fond, be true to me! 


Yet shall thy heart, Nera, bleed for this, 
For if in Flaccus aught of man remain, 
Give thou another joys that once were his, 
Some other maid more true shall soothe his pain ; 
Nor think again to lure him to thy heart! 
The pang once felt, his love is past recall; 
And thou, more favour’d youth, whoe’er thou art, 
Who revell’st now in triumph o’er his fall, 
Though thou be rich in land and golden store, 
In lore a sage, with shape framed to beguile, 
Thy heart shall ache when, this brief fancy o’er, 
She seeks a new love, and I calmly smile. 


EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 267 


-EPODE XVI. 
TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 


ANOTHER age in civil wars will soon be spent and 
worn, 

And by her native strength our Rome be wreck’d 
and overborne, 

That Rome, the Marsians could not crush, who 
border on our lands, 

Nor the shock of threatening Porsena with his 
Etruscan bands, 

Nor Capua’s strength that rivall’d ours, nor Sparta- 
cus the stern, 

Nor the faithless Allobrogian, who still for change 
doth yearn. 

Ay, what Germania’s blue-eyed youth quell’d not 
with ruthless sword, 

Nor Hannibal by our creat sires detested and ab- 
horr’d, 

We shall destroy with impious hands imbrued in 
brother’s gore, 

And wild beasts of the wood shall range our native 
land once more. 

A foreign ‘foe, alas! shall tread The City’s ashes 
down, 

And his horse’s ringing hoofs shall smite her places 
of renown, 

And the bones of great Quirinus, now religiously 
enshrined, 

Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the sunshine 
and the wind. 


968 EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 


And if ye all from ills so dire ask, how yourselves 
to free, 

Or such at least as would not hold your lives un- 
worthily, 

No better counsel can I urge, than that which erst 
inspired 

The stout Phoceeans when from their doom’d city 
they retired, 

Their fields, their household gods, their shrines sur- 
rendering as a prey 

To the wild boar and the ravening wolf; so we in 
our dismay, 

Where’ér our wandering steps may chance to carry 
us should go, 

Or wheresoe’er across the seas the fitful winds. may 
blow. 

How think ye then? If better course none offer, 
why should we 

Not seize ae happy auspices, and boldly put to 
sea ? 

But let us swear this oath;— “ Whene’er, if e’er 
shall come the time, 

Rocks upwards from the deep shall float, return 
shall not be crime ; 

Nor we be loth to back our sails, the ports of home 
‘to seek, 

When the waters of the Po shall lave Matinum’s 
rifted peak, 

Or skyey Apenninus down into the sea be roll’d, 

Or wild unnatural desires such monstrous revel 
hold, 

That in the stag’s endearments the tigress shall 
delight, 

And the turtle-dove adulterate with the falcon and 
the kite, 

That unsuspicious herds no more shall tawny lions 
fear, 

And the he-goat, smoothly sleek of skin, through 
the briny deep career !” 





EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 269 | 


This having sworn, and what beside may our re- 
turning stay, 

Straight let us all, this City’s doom’d inhabitants, 
away, 

Or those ae rise above the herd, the few of nobler 
soul ; 

The, craven and the hopeless here on their ill-starr’d 
beds may loll. 

Ye who can feel and act like men, this woman’s 
wail give o’er, 

And fly to regions far away beyond the Etruscan 
shore! 

The circling ocean waits us; then away, where 
nature smiles, 

To those fair lands, those blissful lands, the rich and 
happy Isles! 

Where Ceres year by year crowns all the untill’d 
land with sheaves, 

And the vine with purple clusters droops, unpruned 
of all her leaves ; 

Where the olive buds and burgeons, to its promise 
ne’er untrue, 

. And the russet fig adorns the tree, that graffshoot 
never knew! 

Where honey from the hollow oaks doth ooze, and 
crystal rills 

Come dancing down with tinkling feet from the 
sky-dividing hills; 

There to the pails the she-goats come, without a 

. master’s word, 

And home with udders brimming broad returns the 
friendly herd ; 

There round ‘the fold no surly bear its midnight 
prowl doth make, 

Nor teems the rank and heaving soil with the adder 
and the snake ; 

There no contagion smites the flocks, nor blight of 
any star 

With fury of remorseless heat the sweltering herds 
doth mar. 


270 EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 


Nor this the only bliss that waits us there, where 
drenching rains 

By watery Eurus swept along ne’er devastate the 

lains, 

Nor are the swelling seeds burnt up within the 
thirsty clods, ‘ai Pane 

So kindly blends the seasons there the King of all 
the Gods. 

That shore the Argonautic bark’s stout rowers never 

ain’d, 

Nor the wily she of Colchis with step unchaste pro- 
faned, 

The sails of Sidon’s gallies ne’er were wafted to 
that strand, 

Nor ever rested on its slopes Ulysses’ toilworn band ; 

For Jupiter, when he with brass the Golden Age 
alloy’d, 

That blissful region set apart by the good to be 
enjoy’d; 

With pee aca then with iron he the ages sear’d, 
but ye 

Good men and true to that bright home arise and 
follow me! 


EPODE XVII. RECANTATION TO CANIDIA, 271 


EPODE XVII. 
HORACE’S RECANTATION TO CANIDIA. 


Here at thy feet behold me now 

Thine all-subduing skill avow, 

And beg of thee on suppliant knee, 

By realms of dark Persephone, 

By Dian’s awful might, and by 

Thy books of charms which from the sky 
Can drag the stars, Canidia, 

To put thy magic sleights away, 
Reverse thy whirling wheel amain, 

And loose the spell that binds my brain ! 
Even Telephus to pity won 
The ocean-cradled Thetis’ son, 

’Gainst whom his Mysian hosts he led, 
And his sharp-pointed arrow sped. 

The man-destroying Hector, doom’d 

By kites and dogs to be consumed, 

Was natheless by the dames of Troy 
Embalm’d, when, mourning for his boy, 
King Priam left his city’s wall, 

At stern Achilles’ feet to fall. 

Ulysses’ stalwart rowers, too, 

Away their hide of bristles threw 

At Circe’s word, and donn’d again 

The shape, the voice, the soul of men. 
Enough of punishment, I’m sure, 

Thou hast compell’d me to endure, 


272 EPODE XVII. RECANTATION TO CANIDIA. 


Enough and more, thou being dear 

To pedlar ang to marinere ! 

My youth has fled, my rosy hue 

Turn’d to a wan and livid blue; 
Blanch’d by thy mixtures is my hair; 
No respite have I from despair. 

The days and nights, they wax and wane, 
But bring me no release from pain ; 
Nor can I ease, howe’er I gasp, 

The spasm which holds me in its grasp. 
So am I vanquish’d, so recant, 
Unlucky wretch ! my creed, and grant 
That Sabine spells can vex the wit, 
And heads by Marsic charms be split. 
What wouldst thou more? O earth! O sea! 
Nor even Alcides burned like me, 
With Nessus’ venom’d gore imbued, 
Nor Etna in its fiercest mood ; 

For till my flesh, to dust calcined, 

Be scatter’d by the scornful wind, 
Thou glow’st a very furnace fire, 
Distilling Colchian poisons dire! 
When will this end? Or what may be 
The ransom, that shall set me free ? 
Speak! Let the fine be what it may, 
That fine most rigidly I’ll pay. 
Demand a hundred steers, with these... 
Thy wrath I’m ready to appease ! 

Or wouldst thou rather so desire 

The praise of the inventive lyre, 

Thou, chaste and good, shalt range afar 
The spheres, thyself a golden star! 
Castor, with wrath indignant stung, 
And Castor’s brother, by the tongue, 
That slander’d Helena the fair, 

Yet listen’d to the slanderer’s pray’r, 
Forgave the bard the savage slight, 
Forgave him, and restor’d his sight. 
Then drive, for so thou canst, this pain, 
This wildering frenzy from my brain ! 


EPODE XVII. RECANTATION TO CANIDIA. 273 


O thou, untainted by the guile 

Of parentage depraved and vile, 
Thou, who dost ne’er in haglike wont, 
Among the tombs of paupers hunt 
For ashes newly laid in ground, 
Love-charmhs and philtres to compound, 
Thy heart is gentle, pure thy hands ; 
And there thy Partumeius stands, -° 
Reproof to all, who dare presume 
With barrenness to charge thy womb; 
For never dame more sprightly rose 
Or lustier from childbed throes! 


CANIDIA’S REPLY. 


Why pour your prayers to heedless ears ? 
Not rocks, when Winter’s blast careers, 
Lash’d by the angry surf, are more 
Deaf to the seaman dash’d on shore! 
What! Think, unpunish’d to deride, 
And rudely rend the veil aside, 
That shrouds Cotytto’s murky rites, 
And love’s, unfetter’d love’s, delights ? 
And, as though you high-priest might be 
Of Esquilinian sorcery, 
Branding my name with ill renown, 
Make me the talk of all the town ? 
Where then my gain, that with my gold 
I bribed Pelignian beldames old, 
Or master’d by their aid the gift 
To mingle poisons sure and swift ? 
You’d have a speedy doom? But no, 
It shall be lingering, sharp, and slow. 
Your life, ungrateful wretch! shall be 
Spun out in pain and misery, 

12* R 


274 


EPODE XVII. CANIDIA’S REPLY. 


And still new tortures, woes, and pangs 
Shall gripe you with relentless fangs ! 
Yearns Pelops’ perjured sire for rest, 
Mock’d by the show of meats unblest, 
For rest, for rest Prometheus cries, 

As to the vulture chain’d he lies, 

And Sisyphus his rock essays 

Up to the mountain’s top to raise ; 
Still clings the curse, for Jove’s decree 
Forbids them ever to be free. 

So you would from the turret leap, 

So in your breast the dagger steep, 
So, in disgust with life, would fain 

Go hang yourself, — but all in vain ! 
Then comes my hour of triumph, then 
I'll goad you till you writhe again ; 
Then shall you curse the evil hour, 
You made a mockery of my power ! 
Think ye, that I who can at will 
Move waxen images — my skill 

You, curious fool! know all too well — 
That I who can by mutter’d spell 

The moon from out the welkin shake, 
The dead ev’n from their ashes wake, 
And mix the chalice to inspire 

With fierce unquenchable desire, 
Shall my so-potent art bemoan 

As impotent ’gainst thee alone ? 


THE SECULAR HYMN. 





TO APOLLO AND DIANA. 


Pueasvs, and Dian, forest queen, 
Heaven’s chiefest light sublime, 
Ye, who high-worshipp’d evermore have been, 
And shall high-worshipp’d be forevermore, 
Fulfil the prayers, which at this sacred time 
To you we pour ; 
This time, when, prompted by the Sybil’s lays, 
Virgins elect, and spotless youths unite 
To the Immortal Gods a hymn to raise 
Who in the seven-hill’d City take delight ! 


Benignant sun, who with thy car of flame 
Bring’st on the day, 
And takest it away, 
And still art born anew, . 
Another, yet the same, 
In all thy wanderings may’st thou nothing view, 
That mightier is than Rome, 
The empress of the world, our mother, and our home! 


O Ilithyia, of our matrons be 
The guardian and the stay, 
And as thine office is, unto the child 
Who in the womb hath reach’d maturity, 
Gently unbar the way, 
Whether Lucina thou wouldst rather be, 
Or Genitalis styled ! 


. 


278 TO APOLLO AND DIANA. 


Our children, goddess, rear in strength and health, 
And with thy blessing crown ~ 
The Senate’s late decree, 
The nuptial law, that of our dearest wealth 
The fruitful source shalt be, — 
A vigorous race, who to posterity 
Shall hand our glory, and our honours down ! 
So, as the circling years, ten-times eleven, 
Shall bring once more this season round, 
Once more our hymns shall sound, 
Once more our solemn festival be given, 
Through three glad days, devoted to thy rites, 
Three joyous “days, and three not a delightsome 
nights ! 


And you, ye Sister Fates, 
Who truly do fulfil 
What doom soever, by your breath decreed, 
In the long vista ofthe future waits, 
As ye have ever made our fortunes speed, 
Be gracious to us still ! 


And oh! may Earth, which plenteous increase bears 
Of fruits, and corn, and wine, 
A stately coronal for Ceres twine 
Of the wheat’s golden shocks, 
‘And healthful watets and salubrious airs 
Nourish the yeanling flocks ! 


Aside thy weapons laid, Apollo, hear 
With gracious ear serene 
The suppliant youths, who now entreat thy boon! 
And thou, of the constellations queen, 
Two-hornéd Moon, 
To the young maids give ear! 


If Rome be all thy work, if Trojan bands 
Upon the Etruscan shore have won renown, 


TO APOLLO AND DIANA. _ 279 


That chosen remnant, who at thy commands 
Forsook their hearths, and homes, and native 


town ; . 
If all unscathed through Ilion’s flames they sped 
By sage Aineas led, 
And o’er the ocean-waves in safety fled, 
Destined from him, though of his home bereft, 
A nobler dower to take, than all that they had left ! 


Ye powers divine, 
Unto our docile youth give morals pure! 
Ye powers divine, 
To placid age give peace, 
And to the stock of Romulus ensure 
Dominion vast, a never failing line, 
And in all noble things still make them to increase ! 


And oh! may he who now 
To you with milk-white steers uplifts his pray’r, 
Within whose veins doth flow 
Renown’d Anchises’ blood, and Venus’ ever fair, 
Be still in war supreme, yet still the foe 
His sword hath humbled spare ! 


Now, even now the Mede © 
Our hosts omnipotent by land and sea, 
And Alban axes fears; the Scythians, late 
So vaunting, and the hordes of Ind await, 
On low expectant knee, 
What terms soe’er we may be minded to concede. 
Now Faith, and Peace, and Honour, and the old 
Primeval Shame, and Worth long held in scorn, 
To reappear make bold, 
And blissful Plenty, with her teeming horn, 
Doth all her smiles unfold. 


And oh! may He, the Seer divine, 
God of the fulgent bow, 


280 TO APOLLO AND DIANA. 


Phebus, beloved of the Muses nine, 
Who for the body rack’d and worn with woe 
By arts remedial finds an anodyne, 
If he with no unloving eye doth view 
The crested heights and halls of Palatine, 
On to a lustre new 
Prolong the weal of Rome, the blest Estate _ 
Of Latium, and on them, long ages through, 
Still growing honours, still new joys accumulate ! 


And may She, too, who makes her haunt 
On Aventine and Algidus alway, 
May She, Diana, grant 
The pray’rs, which duly here 
The Fifteen Men upon this festal day 
To her devoutly send, 
And to the youths’ pure adjurations lend 
No unpropitious ear ! 


Now homeward we repair, 
Full of the blessé¢d hope, that will not fail, 
That Jove and all the Gods have heard our pray’r, 
And with approving smiles our homage hail, — 
We skill’d in choral harmonies to raise 
The hymn to Phebus and Diana’s praise. 


NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 








ei 


veo 


LL. an. REIGATE) 


+ # 
§ 4 AASK Be 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


Satire 6, Book I., p. 8. A large portion of this 
satire, which is addressed to Mecenas, throws so 
much light upon the life and character of Horace, 
that a translation of it from line 45 to the close is 
subjoined. 


Now to myself, the freedman’s son, come I, 

- Whom all the mob of gaping fools decry, 
Because, forsooth, I am a freedman’s son; 

My sin at present is, that I have won 

Thy trust, Mecenas; once in this it lay, 

That o’er a Roman legion I bore sway 

As Tribune, — surely faults most opposite ; 

For though, perchance, a man with justice might 
Grudge me the tribune’s honours, why should he 
Be jealous of the favour shewn by thee, — 

Thee who, unsway’d by fawning wiles, art known 
To choose thy friends for honest worth alone ? 
Lucky I will not call myself, as though 

Thy friendship I to mere good fortune owe. 

No chance it was secured me thy regards ; 

But Virgil first, that best of friends and bards, 
And then kind Varius mentioned what I was. 
Before you brought, with many a faltering pause, 
Dropping some few brief words, (for bashfulness 
Robb’d me of utterance,) I did not profess, 

That I was sprung of lineage old and great, 

Or used to canter round my own estate, 


284 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


On Satureian barb, but what and who 
I am as plainly told. As usual, you 
Brief answer make me. I retire, and then, 
Some nine months after summoning me again, 
You bid me ’mongst your friends assume a place: 
And proud I feel, that thus I won thy grace, 
Not by an ancestry long known to fame, 
But by my life, and heart devoid of blame. 

Yet if some trivial faults, and these but few, 
My nature, else not much amiss, imbue, 
Just as you wish away, yet scarcely blame, 
A mole or two upon a comely frame ; 
If no man may arraign me of the vice 
Of lewdness, meanness, nor of avarice ; 
If pure and innocent I live, and dear 
To those I love, (self-praise is venial here,) 
All this I owe my father, who, though poor, 
Lord of some few lean acres, and no more, 
Was loth to send me to the village school, 
Whereto the sons of men of mark and rule, — 
Centurions, and the like, — were wont to swarm, 
With slate and satchel on sinister arm, 
And the poor dole of scanty pence to pay 
The starveling teacher on the quarter day ; 
But boldly took me when a boy to Rome, 
There to be taught all arts, that grace the home 
Of knight and senator. To see my dress, 
And slaves attending, you’d have thought, no less 
Than patrimonial fortunes old and great 
Had furnish’d forth the charges of my state. 
When with my tutors, he would still be by, 
Nor ever let me wander from his eye ; 
And in a word he kept me chaste (and this 
Is virtue’s crown) from all that was amiss, 
Nor such an act alone, but in repute, 
Till even scandal’s tattling voice was mute. 
No dread had he, that men might taunt or jeer, 
Should I, some future day, as auctioneer, 
Or, like himself, as tax-collector seek 
With petty vails my humble means to eke. 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 285 


Nor should I then have murmur’d. Now I know, 
More earnest thanks, and loftier praise I owe. 
Reason must fail me, ere I cease to own 

With pride, that I have such a father known; 
Nor shall I stoop my birth to vindicate, 

By charging, like the herd, the wrong on Fate, 
That I was not of noble lineage sprung: 

Far other creed inspires my heart and tongue. 
For now should Nature bid all living men 
Retrace their years, and live them o’er again, 
Each culling, as his inclination bent, 

His parents for himself, with mine content, 

I would not choose, whom men endow as great 
- With the insignia and the seats of state ; 

And, though I seem’d insane to vulgar eyes, 
Thou wouldst perchance esteem me truly wise, 
In thus refusing to assume the care 

Of irksome state I was unused to bear. 

For then a larger income must be made, 
Men’s favour courted, and their whims obey’d, 
Nor could I then indulge a lonely mood, 

Away from town, in country solitude, 

For the false retinue of pseudo-friends, 

That all my movements servilely attends. 

More slaves must then be fed, more horses too, 
And chariots bought. Now have I nought to do, 
If I would even to Tarentum ride, 

But mount my bob-tail’d mule, my wallets tied 
Across his flanks, which, flapping as we go, 

With my ungainly ancles to and fro, 

Work his unhappy sides a world of weary woe. 
Yet who shall call me mean, as men call thee, 

O Tillius, when they oft a praetor see 

On the Tiburtine Way with five poor knaves, 
Half-grown, half-starved, and overweighted slaves, 
Bearing, to save your charges when you dine, 

A travelling kitchen, and a jar of wine. 

Illustrious senator, more happy far, 

I live than you, and.hosts of others are! 


286 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


I walk alone, by mine own fancy led, 

Enquire the price of, potherbs and of bread, 

The circus cross to see its tricks and fun, 

The forum, too, at times near set of sun; 

With other fools there do I stand and gape 
Round fortune-tellers’ stalls, thence home escape 
To a plain meal of pancakes, pulse, and peas ; 
Three young boy-slaves attend on me with these. 
Upon a slab of snow-white marble stand 

A goblet, and two beakers; near at hand, 

A common ewer, patera, and bowl, — 
Campania’s potteries produced the whole. 

To sleep then I, unharass’d by the fear, 

That I to-morrow must betimes appear 

At Marsyas’ base, who vows he cannot brook 
Without a pang the Younger Novius’ look. 

I keep my couch till ten, then walk a while, 

Or having read or writ what may beguile 

A quiet after hour, anoint my limbs 

With oil, not such as filthy Natta skims 

From lamps defrauded of their unctuous fare. _ 
And when the sunbeams, grown too hot to bear, 
Warn me to quit the field, and hand-ball play, 
The bath takes all my weariness away. 

Then having lightly dined, just to appease 

The sense of emptiness, I take mine ease, 
Enjoying all home’s simple luxury. 

This is the life of bard uncloge’d, like me, 

By stern ambition’s miserable “weight, 

So placed, I own with gratitude, my state 

Is sweeter, ay, than though a questor’s power 
From sire and erandsires sires had been my dower. 


Even in what may be assumed to be his earliest 
poems, the fire of genuine passion is wanting. p. 22. 
Horace’s exquisite susceptibility to beauty of course 
subjected him to many transient passions, of which 
traces are apparent in the poems here more partic- 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 287 


ularly referred to. But even in these it is quite 
clear that his admiration, though it may preoccupy 
his thoughts, or even rob him of his sleep, never 
elevates him out of himself. It suggests no images 
beyond those of sensual gratification ; it involves no 
sorrow beyond a temporary disappointment soon to 
be solaced elsewhere. His heart is untouched. 

Very different is it with Catullus and other Ro- 
man erotic poets. Their mistresses are to them 
both mistresses and muses, — at once their inspira- 
tion and their reward: Loving intensely, and with 
constancy, their fervour animated and has won 
immortality for their song. Had they not loved 
deeply, they would probably never have written. 
Thus Propertius acknowledges his obligations to his 
mistress ; — 


Queritur unde mihi toties scribuntur amores, 
Unde meus veniat mollis in ore liber ? 

Non mihi Calliope, non hee mihi cantat Apollo, 
Ingenium nobis ipsa puella fuit. 


Do you ask, how in hues ever varied and glowing, 
Love flashes and gleams in my verses so oft, 

Or would you discover what keeps them still flowing 
In honey-like cadences warbling and soft ? 

It is not Calliope kindles my fancies, 
It is not Apollo that wakens my lyre, 

But my girl, that illumines my brain with her glances, 
And hangs on my lips, till she tips them with fire. 


Horace has no such acknowledgment to make. 
Song was not to him the medium in which the 
throbbing heart of imaginative passion found relief. 
He was to the last keenly alive to the charms of 
the sex; but neither in his youth nor riper years 
were they his inspiration. 


The difference between the poetry of passion 
and fancy can scarcely be better exemplified, than 
by contrasting his love poems with those of Catullus, 


288 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


of which Lesbia is the theme. Even, if we did not 
know, that the latter were the records of an actual 
liaison, the unmistakable sincerity of the emotion 
which they breathe would place the fact beyond a 
doubt. Catullus manifestly loved this woman with 
all his heart. She became false, and even aban- 
doned herself to the lowest licentiousness ; but her 
hold upon his affections, even when esteem was 
gone, remained the same, and his verses pourtray 
with ‘touching force the anguish of the infatuated 
heart, which clings to a beloved object, of whose 
worthlessness it is ; convinced, unable to dethrone it 
from the supremacy, which yet it reluctantly avows. 
They reflect the various phases of the lover’s feel- 
ings with the liveliest truth, — his joys, his doubts, 
his anguish, his self-contempt. Let the reader, for 
evidence of this, glance with us over the various 
poems, which have made his Lesbia immortal. 

She is introduced to us playing off the engaging 
but tormenting artifices of the coquettish beauty 
in the following lines. 


Sparrow, my dear lady’s joy, 

Who with thee delights to toy, 

Thee within her breast to fold, 

And her fair forefinger hold 

Out for thee to bite its tip, 

Whilst I sit by with quivering lip, 

And she, with playful arts like these, 
Affects to keep a bright-eyed ease, 

And hide her passion’s pleasing pain, 
That runs, like fire, through every vein! 
With thee, like her, I fain would play, 
And chase my bosom’s grief away ; 

And thou shouldst welcome be to me, 
As in the legend old, we see, 

The magic apple was to her, 

Whose icy heart no youth could stir, — 
The golden fruit, which loosed the zone, _ 
And bade her love’s dominion own. 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 289 


But the sparrow dies, and, like a true lover, Ca- 
tullus thus pens a woful sonnet on the occasion :— 


Loves and Graces, mourn with me, 
Mourn, fair youths, where’er ye be! 
Dead my Lesbia’s sparrow is, 
Sparrow, that was all her bliss; 
Than her very eyes more dear, — 
For he made her dainty cheer, 
Knew her well, as any maid 

Knows her mother ,— never stray’d 
From her lap, but still would go 
Hopping round her to and fro, 

And to her, and none but she, 
Piped and chirrup’d prettily. 

Now he treads that gloomy track, 
Whence none ever may come back. 
Out upon you, and your power, 
Which all fairest things devour 
Orcus’ gloomy shades, that e’er 

Ye took my bird, that was so fair! 
O, vilely done! O, dismal shades! 
On you I charge it, that my maid’s 
Dear little eyes are swollen and red, 
With weeping for her darling dead. 


Never had lady’s pet a cenotaph like this, in 
which the triviality of the theme is forgotten in the 
artistic beauty of the work. Such lines could 
searcely fail to raise him high in favour with the 
distracted beauty, to whom he could now address 
the following pleasant admonition : — 


Let us give our little day 

All to love, my Lesbia, 

Heeding not the precepts sage, 

Nor the frowns of crabbéd age! 

When the sun sets, ’t is to rise 

Brighter in the morning skies ; 
13 8 


290 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


But, when sets our little light, 
We must sleep in endless night. 
Give me then a thousand kisses, 
Add a hundred to my Dlisses, 
Then a thousand more, and then 
Add a hundred once again. 
Crown me with a thousand more, 
Give a hundred as before, 

Cease not then, but kiss me still, 
Adding hundreds, thousands, till, 
Lost in exquisite sensation, 

We confound all calculation, 
And no envy mar our blisses, 
Hearing of such heaps of kisses ! 


This style of advice has been a mania in the 
poetical world ever since. Thus our own Carew 
expands the first part of the theme. 


O love me then, and now begin it, 

Let me not lose the present minute ; 
For time and age will work that wrack, 
Which time or age shall ne’er call back. 
The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
The faded rose each spring receives 

A fresh red tincture on her leaves; 

But if your beauties once decay, 

You never know a second May. 

O then be wise, and whilst your season 
Affords you days for sport, do reason ; 
Spend not in vain your life’s short hour, 
But crop in time your beauty’s flower, 
Which will away, and doth together, 
Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 


Herrick again has caught up the latter part of 
Catullus’s strain very happily in the following lines. 


Ah, my Anthea, must my heart still break ? 
Love makes me write what shame forbids to speak. 


‘NOTES TO THE LIFF. 291 


Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score, 
Then to that twenty add a hundred more — 
A thousand to that hundred — so kiss on 

To make that thousand up a million, 

Treble that million, and when that is done, 
Let ’s kiss afresh as when we first begun ! 


But hear Catullus again upon the same ever inter- 
esting theme. 


Dost thou, Lesbia, bid me say 
How many kisses from thy lip 

I’d take, ere I would turn away, 
And of its sweets no longer sip! 


Count the grains of sand are roll’d 
On Cyrene’s spicy plain, 

*Twixt the tomb of Battus old, 
And the sweltering Hammon’s fane. 


Count the silent stars of night, 
That be ever watching, when 

Lovers tasting stolen delight 
Dream not of their silent ken. 


When these numbers thou hast told, 
And hast kisses given as many, 
Then, perchance, I may cry, Hold! 

~ And no longer wish for any. 


But, my love, there ’s no amount 
For my raging thirst too vast, 

Which a curious fool may count, 
Or with tongue malignant blast.* 


* The concluding lines of this and the poem last cited from 
Catullus both refer to the superstition held by many modern na- 
tions in common with the old Romans, that whatever could not 
be counted was exempt from the influence of magic, and vice 
versa. 


292 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


But the sun does not always shine, even in the 
heaven of love. Pretty Polly’s fancy will “ stray 
to some newer lover.” Lesbia has thrown the 
handkerchief elsewhere. Catullus sees that he has 
outlived her liking, and thus he remonstrates. 


Sigh no more, thou foolish wight! 
Catullus, be a man — and deem 

That, which thou seest hast perish’d quite, 
To be like an evanish’d dream. 


O, life was once a heaven to thee! 
Her eyes beam’d at thy coming then — 
The maid beloved, as ne’er shall be 
Maiden beloved by thee again. 


Then didst thou freely taste the bliss, 
On which impassioned lovers feed ; 

When she repaid thee kiss for kiss, 
O, life was then a heaven indeed! 


*T is past! Forget as she forgot ! 
Lament no more — but let her go! 
Tear from thy heart each tender thought, 
That round her image there did grow! 


Girl, fare thee well! Catullus ne’er 

Will sue, where love is met with scorn ; 
But, false one, thou with none to care 

For thee, on thy lone couch shalt mourn ! 


Think what a waste thy life shall be! 

Who’ll woo thee now ? who praise thy charms ? 
Who shall be all in all to thee, , 

Thy heart’s love nestling in thy arms ? 


Who now will give thee kiss for kiss ? 
Whose lip shalt thou in rapture bite ? 
And in thy lone hours think of this, 
My heart has cast thee from it quite. 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 293 


Clodia, for such was Lesbia’s real name, was a 
woman, as we learn from Cicero’s witty oration in 
defence of Czlius, who abandoned herself to the 
whole round of dissipations, which lay open, in a 
luxurious city like Rome, to a rich and profligate 
beauty. We know that she numbered in her train 
of admirers men of the first families in the city ; but 
she seems to have pursued her pleasures with an 
indiscriminate appetite, which was not scrupulous 
as to the character or rank of her associates. To 
this Catullus alludes more than once, and, in partic- 
ular, in a poem to Ceelius, couched in terms of the 
bitterest disgust. That he was unable, notwith- 
standing, to maintain the resolution to forget her 
expressed in the poem just quoted was only to be 
anticipated. The wanton beauty held him in her 
meshes, and he was as ready to be deceived with 
his eyes open as ever. After some temporary rec- 
onciliation he probably wrote these caustic lines. 


My mistress says, there ’s not a man 
Of all the many swains she knows, 
She ’d rather wed than me, not one, 
Though Jove himself were to propose. 


She says so; — but what woman says 

To him who thinks his tale has caught her, 
*T is only fit it should be writ 

In air or in the running water. 


Such must ever be the Jeremiad of him who fixes 
his affections on a ‘“‘ weed of glorious feature” like 
Lesbia. Well for him if he can tear it from his 
heart! Catullus could not. With all her faults, 
he loved her as passionately as before; but how 
changed that love! There is deep pathos in the 
following : — 


You told me, — ah, well I remember the hour! 
That still to Catullus thy heart should be true, 


294 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


That, blest with his heart’s love, thy best, brightest 
dower, 
Even Jove at thy feet unregarded might sue. 
Then [loved thee, and oh! what a passion was mine! 
Undimmed by dishonour, unsullied by shame, 
O, ’t was pure asa sire round his child might en- 
twine, ‘i 
To guard its dear head with the sheltering flame. 


Now I know thee, how faithless, how worthless thou 
art | 
That the stain of dishonour is dark on thy brow, 
And though thou may’st still be the queen of my 
heart, 
How changed the emotions I feel for thee now! 
No more the pure being my fancy adored, 
With incense sent up from love’s hallowing fire, 
Thou hast fallen, and my heart, to thy infamy 
lower’d, 
Is cursed with the rage of degrading desire. 


In a similar mood must he have written the fol- 
lowing couplet : — 


I hate and love — wherefore I cannot tell, 
But by my tortures know the fact too well. 


Once more, however, the temptress threw her 
fascinations around him. His scorn of her fickle- 
ness, and her frailty, the bitter promptings of 
e: own self-reproach were forgotten, and he wrote 
thus: 


O Lesbia, surely no mortal was ever 
So fond of a woman as I am of you — 

A youth more devoted, more constant was never ;— 
Lo me there’s enchantment in all that you do. 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 295 


Yes, love has so wholly confused my ideas 
Of right and of wrong, that I’ll doat on you still, 
As fondly, as blindly, although you may be as 
Chaste or as naughty as ever you will! 


Every lover recognises the truth of the follow- 
ing lines, which were probably written when Catul- 
lus had been alienated from her side by some of 
their lovers’ quarrels. 


Lesbia rails at me, they say, 

Talks against me all the day. 

May I die, but I can tell 

By this, that Lesbia loves me well! 


Would you know my reason, Sir? 
Even so I rail at her. 

But may I die, but I can tell 

I love my Lesbia but too well ? 


The symptom is, we believe, infallible. See how 
it ended with Catullus! One day, as he lay medi- 
tating very possibly his fine tale of 


Ariadne passioning 
For Theseus’ perjuries and unjust flight 


the lady walked into his apartment. We leave 
him to tell the rest. 


There ’s not a joy we have so strong, 
As when some wish by chance is granted, 
For which, though huge’d and cherish’d long, 
Without a hope we long had panted. 


Such was my joy, my glad surprise, 

When gloom around my head was closing, 
To find thee, with thy ardent eyes, 

Once more within my arms reposing. 


296 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 


You came to me — unsought you came — 
And brought with you delight the rarest, 

When Hope had left Love’s drooping flame ; 
O day of days the brightest, fairest ! 


What living man more blest than I, 

So lapp’d and throughly wrapp’d in blisses! 
All human fancy I defy 

To feign a greater joy than this is! 


Under such circumstances what could Catullus 
do? ‘There was a tear glistening in the soft eyes 
of his mistress, as she begged forgiveness, and prom- 
ised constancy for the future. Catullus kissed it 
away, and addressed her thus : — 


O, my soul’s joy, and dost thou wish, as now, 
That evermore our love burn strong and clear? 
Ye gods, grant she be faithful to her vow, 
And that ’tis uttered from a heart sincere! 


So may each year that hurries o’er us find, 
While others change with life’s still changing hue, 
The ties that bind us now more firmly twined, _ 
Our hearts as fond, our love as warm and true. 


Lesbia’s vow was, of course, broken, and the 
great king of gods and men, who “ laughs at lovers’ 
perjuries,” was thus passionately invoked by the 
unfortunate lover in a way that leaves no doubt 
upon the subject. 


If there be joy for him who can retrace 

His life, and see some good deeds shining there, ~ 
Who never plighted vows, in the dread face 

Of heaven, to lure another to his snare; 


Then many a joy through many a smiling year 
For thee, Catullus, is there yet in store, 


NOTES TO THE LIFE. 297 


Requital of thy truth to one so dear, 
So false as she, the maid thou dost adore. 


Why longer keep thy heart upon the rack ? 
Give to thy thoughts a higher, nobler aim! 
The gods smile on thy path; then look not back 

In tears upon a love that was thy shame. 


*T is hard at once to fling a love away, 
That has been cherish’d with the faith of years. 
*T is hard — but ’tis thy duty. Come, what may, 
Crush every record of its joys, its fears ! 


O ye great gods, if you can pity feel, 

If e’er to dying wretch your aid was given, 
See me in agony before you kneel, 

To beg this curse may from me far be driven, 


That creeps in drowsy horror through each vein, 
Leaves me no thought from bitter anguish free. 
I do not ask, she may be kind again, 
No, nor be chaste, for that may never be ! 


I ask for peace of mind —a spirit clear 
From the dark taint that now upon it rests. 
Give then, O give, ye gods, this boon so dear 
To one who ever hath revered thy ’hests! 


With this ends what remains to us of the poems 
relating to Lesbia, — a fasciculus, which presents in 
vivid colours that conflict of emotions which must 
ever spring from love wasted upon profligate incon- 
stancy. | 


13* 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


ODE L. p. 37. 


Mecenas, sprung from monarchs old. ©. Cilnius 
Mecenas belonged to the family of the Cini, 
descendants of Cilnius of Arretium, one of the 
Lucumones, or princes of Etruria. It is to this cir- 
cumstance that Horace alludes here, and in the 
Ode 39, B. UI. line 1. Mecenas never accepted 
any of the high offices of state, preferring to remain 
a mere knight; a rank of which, to judge by the 
emphasis with which Horace dwells upon it In more 
than one poem, he appears to have been proud. 
In the words of Mr. Newman, he was “the chief 
-commoner of Rome,” but “ whatever his nominal 
relation to the state, was more powerful than Sena- 
tors and Magistrates.” (The Odes of Horace, Trans- 
lated by F. “W. Newman. London, 1853, p. 3.) 

Golden Atialus. Attalus UI, last king of Perga- 
mus, bequeathed his possessions to the Roman peo- 
ple. B.C. 133. 

Africus. The W. S. W. wind. 

Massic old. The Massic wine, the produce of 
Mons Massicus, in Campania, like the Falernian, 
which came from another side of the mountain, was 
highly esteemed. 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 299 


ODE II. p. 39. 


Rising in ire, to avenge his Ilia’s plaint. Tlia, 
the mother by Mars of Romulus and Remus, was 
drowned in the Anio, a tributary of the Tiber, to 
the god of which latter river Horace here assumes 
her to have been wedded. Her “ plaint” is for the 
death of her descendant, Julius Ceesar. 

The Marsian’s flashing eye, and fateful port. ‘The 
Marsi, the most warlike people of Italy, are named 
here as representative of the Roman soldiery in 


general. 
ODE IV. p. 43. 


Our own poet Carew had this Ode and the 7. 
Ode of the Fourth Book (ante, p. 219) in his mind, 
when he wrote the following lines on the spring. 


Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost 
Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost 
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream 

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream: 

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, 
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth 

To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree 
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee. 

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring, 

In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring ; 
The vallies, hills, and woods in rich array 
Welcome the coming of the long’d for May. 
Now all things smile; only my Love doth lour ; 
Nor hath our scalding noonday sun the power 
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold 
Her heart congeal’d, and make her pity cold. 
The ox that lately did for shelter fly 

Into the stall, doth now securely lie 

In open fields; and love no more is made 

By the fireside ; but in the cooler shade 


300 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep 
Under a sycamore, and all things keep 
Time with the season — only she doth tarry, 
June in her eyes, in her heart January. 


Malherbe, in his beautiful poem of condolence to 
his friend M. du Perrier on the loss of a daughter, 
adopts in one stanza the thought and almost the 
words of Horace. But indeed the whole poem is 
so thoroughly Horatian in spirit and expression, 
that it might almost seem to have flowed from the 

en of the Venusian bard. To those who are not 
already familiar with the poem, the following stanzas 
of it will be welcome. 


Je sais de quels appas son enfance était pleine, 
Et n’ai pas entrepris, 

Injurieux ami, de soulager ta peine 
Avecque son mepris. 


Mais elle était du monde, ow les plus belles choses 
Ont le pire destin ; 

Et, rose, elle a véecu ce que vivent les roses, 
L’espace d’un matin. 

* * * 

La mort a des rigueurs & nulle autre pareilles; 

_. On a beau la prier; 

La cruelle qu’elle est se bouche les oreilles, 
Et nous laisse crier. 


Le pauvre en sa cabane, ou le chaume le couvre, 
Est sujet a ses lois; 

Et la garde qui veille aux barriéres du Louvre 
N’en defend point nos rois. 


De murmurer contre elle et perdre patience 
Il est mal & propos; 

Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science, 
Qui nous met en repos. 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 801 


In exquisite finish of expression nothing finer 
than these lines can be desired, and there runs 
through them a vein of feeling more delicately ten- 
der than is to be found any where in Horace. ‘This 
was probably due to the purer faith of the modern, 
which insensibly coloured the almost Pagan tone of 
the poem. Malherbe made Horace his breviary, — 
with what effect, these lines prove. 


ODE IX. p. 51. 


Allan Ramsay’s paraphrase of this Ode has all 
the freshness and vigour of Horace, with added 
touches of his own, not unworthy of the original. 


Look up to Pentland’s tow’ring taps, 
Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, 
O’er ilka cleugh, ilk scaur and slap, 
As high as ony Roman wa’. 


Driving their ba’s frae whins or tee, 
There ’s no ae gowfer to be seen, 
Nor douser fouk wysing ajee 
The byas bowls on ‘l'amson’s green. 


Then fling on coals, and rype the ribs, 
And beek the house baith butt and ben, 

That mutchkin stoup, it hauds but dribs, 
Then let’s get in the tappit hen. 


Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
And drives away the winter soon, 
It makes a man baith gash and bauld, 

And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 


Leave to the gods your ilka care, 
If that they think us worth their while, 
They can a rowth o’ blessings spare, 


Which will our fashious fears beguile. 


302 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


For what they have a mind to do, 
That will they do, though we gang wud; 
If they command the storms to blaw, 
Then upo’ sight the hail-stanes thud. 


But soon as e’er they ery, Be quiet, 

The blatt’ring winds dare nae mair move, 
But cower into their caves, and wait 

The high command of sov’reign Jove. 


Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
The present minute ’s only ours; 
On pleasure let’s employ our wit, 
And laugh at fortune’s feckless pow’rs. 


Be sure ye dinna quit the grip 
Of ilka joy, when ye are young, 
Before auld age your vitals nip, 
And lay ye twafauld o’er a rung. 


Sweet youth’s a blythe and heartsome time; 
Then lads and lasses, while it ’s May, 

Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 
Before it wither and decay. 


Watch the saft minutes of delight, 

When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 
And kisses, laying a’ the wyte 

On you, if she kep any skaith. 


“ Haith! ye’re ill-bred!” she ’ll smiling say, 
“Ye ’ll worry me, ye greedy rook !” 

Syne frae your arms she ’ll rin away, 
And hide hersell in some dark nook. 


Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want, 

And plainly tells you to your face, 
Nineteen nay-says are half a grant. 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 303 


Now to her heaving bosom cling, 
And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
Frae her fair finger whop a ring, 

As taiken of a future bliss. 


These benisons, I’m very sure, 
Are of the gods indulgent grant; 
Then, surely carles, whisht, forbear 
To plague us wi’ your whining cant. 


Allan Ramsay attempted versions of other Odes, 
but this was his only success. 


ODE XIIl. p. 58. 


O, trebly blest, and blest forever, &c. Moore has 
paraphrased this passage in the favourite lines, — 


There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, 
When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie, 
With heart never changing, and brow never cold, 
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die! 
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; 
And oh! if there be an Elyisum on earth 
It is this, it is this! 


ODE XVI. p. 63. 


Dindymene herself, &c. Cybele, an Asiatic god- 
dess, called by the Greeks ‘“‘the mother of the 
Gods,” was called Dindymene from mount Dindy- 
mus in Phrygia. She is represented as roaming 
through the world in a chariot drawn by lions, 
attended by her priests the Galli and Corybantes, 
Their orgies were of a peculiarly wild and excited 
character. The Atys of Catullus, one of the most 


304 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


picturesque poems of .antiquity, breathes all the 
frenzy, which was believed to inspire her votaries. 
The following version gives only a faint idea of 
this fine poem,—the hurried sweep and whirl of 
the verse, its broken cadences, its wild pathos, and 
headlong energy. 


ATYS. 
Swiftly, swiftly, o’er the ocean Atys urged his fly- 


ing bark, 

Swiftly leapt to land, and plung’d into the Phry- 
gian forest dark, 

Where the mighty goddess dwells, and furious with 
a dark despair 

Snatch’d from the rock a pointed flint, and reft 
himself of manhood there. 


And when he felt his manhood gone, and saw the 
gore-bedabbled grass, 

Up in his snowy hands he caught the timbrel light, 
that with the brass 

Of clanging trumpets swells thy rites, great mother 
Cybele, and smote 

The sounding skin, and thus unto his mates he sang 
with frenzied throat. 


“ Away, away, ye sexless ones, to Cybele’s high 
groves,” he said. 

“ Away, ye truant herd, and hail your mistress, 
Dindymene dread! 

Ye exiles to strange lands, who dared with me the 
ruthless ocean’s storms, 

And, loathing woman and her love, emasculate 
your lusty forms! 


“ Rejoice, rejoice, what revelries our mistress has 
in store for us! 

No laggard fears retard ye now! On to the steep 
of Dindymus! | 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 3805 


Hence to her Phrygian shrine with me! On to her 
Phrygian forests speed! 
Where drums and echoing cymbals crash, and 
drones the curvéd Phrygian reed. 


“Where raving Menads wildly toss their ivy-cir- 
- eled brows about, 

Where they aftright the haunts divine with wailing 
shrill and piercing shout, 

Where to and fro and up and down, unresting 
evermore they stray, 

There must we pay our vows, and join the mystic 
dance — away, away!” 


He ceased, and his companions all with eldritch 
howl repeat the strain, 

The timbrel light, the cymbal’s clash reverberate 
along the plain ; 

To Ida’s leafy mountain straight along the dusky 
pines they sped, 

With Atys, raging, panting, crazed, careering breath- 
less at their head. . 


On, on he flew, the maddening crew whirled after — 
at the shrine they stopped ; 

There, wan and wearied, lifelessly they all upon 
the threshold dropped ; 

All faint and fasting down they sank — a soft repose 
their frenzy dims, 

And leaden sleep seals up their eyes, and ’numbs 
their over-wearied limbs. 


But when the sun had bathed the earth, and sea, 
and sky with golden light, 

And with his thunder-pacing steeds had chased 
away the shades of night, 

Sleep, leaving then the fevered brain of Atys calm’d 
with downy rest, 

Flew to divine Pasithea, and sank upon her gentle 
breast. 

T 


806 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


The frenzied dream was past, and when the wretch 
saw what it was and where, 

Again it tottered to the shore, in agony of fierce 
despair, 

There, gazing on the ocean’s wide and waste expanse 

j with streaming eyes, 

With choked and broken voice unto the country of 
its birth it cries. 


“ My country, O my country, my mother, and my 
nurse! From whom 

I, like a recreant slave, have fled to Ida’s dreary 
forest-gloom, 

To rocks and snows, and frozen dens, to make with 
beasts my savage lair, 

Where dost thou lie, thou loved land, my country, 
O, my country, where ? 


“©, let me see thee, whilst my brain is yet awhile 
from madness free ! 

Wretch, must I house in these grim woods, far, far 
from home unceasingly: 

Friends, country, parents, all, all gone !—the 
throng, the struggle for the goal, 

The wrestler’s gripe— O misery!—weep, weep, 
forever weep, my soul! 


“ What grace, what beauty, but was mine? Boy, 
youth, and man, I was the flower 

Of the gymnasium ; and the best, that wore the oil, 
confess’d my power: 

My doors were. ever throng’d, and when I left my 
couch at break of day, 

Fair garlands hung by beauteous hands around 
them welcomed me alway. 


“What am I now? Slave to the gods — crazed 
votary of horrid rites — 

Maimed barren, ever doomed to freeze on Ida’s 
green and snow-girt heights, 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 307 


"Neath Phrygia’s frowning crags, where roam the 
stag and forest-ranging boar, 

Woe, woe, that e’er I did the deed! that e’er I 
touched this fatal shore!” 


The wandering winds caught up the words, as from 
his rosy lips they fell, 

And bore those sounds so strangely wild to where 
the blest immortals dwell ; 

They reached the ears of Cybele, who loosed her 
lions from the yoke, 

And thus to him was on the left in words of kin- 
dling ire she spoke: 


“ Away, away, pursue your prey! Scare, scare him 
back in wild affright, 

Back to the woods, the wretch that spurns my ser- 
vice, and that scorns my might, 

Lash, lash thy flanks, with furious roar shake terror 
from thy shaggy mane, 

Away, away!” She ceased, and flung upon his 
neck the loosen’d rein! 


Frantic and fierce, with roar and plunge the mon- 
ster through the thicket crash’d, 

And on to the surf-beaten shore, where stood the 
gentle Atys, dash’d. 

The wretch beheld him — wild with fear, into the 
shaggy forest fled, 

And there in orgies drear a life of ministering bond- 
age led. 


O goddess ever to be feared, O goddess great and 
wonderous, 

O Cybele divine, that hast thy reign on shady 
Dindymus, 

O may thy madness never touch my heart, nor 
blast my trembling brain, 

In others let thy visions “wild, thy frenzied inspira- 
tions reign ! 


808 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


ODE XVII. p. 65. 


My own sweet Lucretilis, &c. Ustica’s low vale. 
Horace here invites the fair Tyndaris to visit him 
‘at his Sabine Villa. Lucretilis and Ustica are 
hills in its neighborhood. Mr. Newman, whose 
tenderness for Horace’s morals goes so far as obvi- 
ously to cost him serious personal uneasiness, thinks 
them in no danger in this instance. ‘ The whole 
tone towards Tyndaris,” he says, “is fatherly as 
well as genial.” Certainly the paternal character 
of the relation does not strike the common reader. 
The lady, it is to be surmised, was no Lucretia; 
and solus cum sola, says the Canon, non presumitur 
orare ; least of all when, as in this case, the gentle- 
man undertakes to console the lady for the cruel 
usage of a former admirer. Still there may be com- 
fort for Mr. Newman. Horace invites Tyndaris to 
visit him; but did she go? As a counterpart to 
the picture suggested by this Ode of the pleasant 
woodland festival of the poet and the celebrated 
singer, where the talk (Greek, probably) would be 
polished and witty, and the repast “light and 
choice, of Attic taste, with wine,” let us take the 
picture of a homelier kind of festival, kindred in 
character, if not quite so refined, which Virgil has 
ole in his Copa. ‘The one is a cabinet sketch 

y Watteau, the other a gallery picture dashed in 
with the broad brush, and vivid colours of Rubens. 


THE TAVERN DANCING GIRL. 


See the Syrian girl, her tresses with the Greek 

tiara bound, 

Skill’d to strike the castanets, and foot it to their 
merry sound, 

Through the tavern’s reeky chamber, with her 
cheeks all flush’d with wine, 

Strikes the rattling reeds, and dances, whilst around 
the guests recline! 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 309 


“‘ Wherefore thus, footsore.and weary, plod through 
summer’s dust and heat ? 

Better o’er the wine to linger, laid in yonder cool 
retreat ! 

There are casks, and cans, and goblets, — roses, 
fifes, and lutes are there, — 

Shady walks, where arching branches cool for us 
the sultry air. 

There from some Meenalian grotto, all unseen, some 
rustic maid 

Pipes her shepherd notes, that babble sweetly 
through the listening glade. 

There, in cask pitch’d newly over, is a vintage 
clear and strong ; 

There, among the trees, a brooklet brawls with 

_ murmur hoarse along ; 

There be garlands, where the violet mingling with 
the crocus blows, 

Chaplets of the saffron twining through the blushes 
of the rose ; 

Lilies, too, which Acheloés shall in wicker baskets 
brin 

Lilies fresh” and sparkling, newly dipp’d within 
some virgin spring. 

There are little cheeses also, laid between the ver- 
dant rushes, 

Yellow plums, the bloom upon them, which they 
took from Autumn’s blushes, 

Chestnuts, apples ripe and rosy, cakes which Ceres 
might applaud ; 

Here, too, dwelleth gentle Amor; here with Bac- 
chus, jovial god ! 

Bloodred mulberries, and clusters of the trailing 
vine between, 

Rush-bound cucumbers are there, too, with their 
sides of bloomy green. 

There, too, stands the cottage-guardian, in his hand 
a willow-hook, 

But he bears no other weapon; maidens unabash’d 
may look. 


310 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


Come, my Alibida, hither! See, your ass is fairly 
beat ! 

Spare him, as I know you love him. How he’s 
panting with the heat! 

Now from. brake and bush is shrilling the cicada’s 
piercing note ; 

E’en the lizard now is hiding in some shady nook 
remote. 

Lay ye down ! — to pause were folly — by the glassy 
fountain’s brink, 

Cool your goblet in the crystal, cool it ever, ere 
you drink. — 

Come, and let your wearied body ‘neath the shady 
vine repose, 

Come, and bind your languid temples with a chap- 
let of the rose! 

Come, and ye shall gather kisses from the lips of 
yon fair girl ; 

He, whose forehead ne’er relaxes, ne’er looks sun- 
ny, is a churl! 

Why should we reserve these fragrant garlands for 
the thankless dust ? 

Would ye that their sweets were gather’d for the 
monumental bust ? 

Wine there !— Wine and dice !— To-morrow’s fears 
shall fools alone benumb ! 

By the ear Death pulls me. “Live!” he whispers 
softly, “ Live! I come!” . 


Baehr, in his History of Roman Literature, sug- 
gests that this poem was written, not by Virgil, 
but by the Valgius Rufus, to whom Horace ad- 
dressed the Ninth Ode of the Second Book (p. 114, 
ante). 


ODE XX. p. 70. 


This Ode is either an invitation to Mecenas 
to visit the poet at his farm (Mecenas’s gift), or, 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. Stl 


more probably, a note written with the view of 
preparing the luxurious statesman for the homely 
fare of the place, on hearing that he intended to 
pay him a visit. The age of the home-grown wine 
is marked by a flattering allusion to an incident, 
which had manifestly gratified Mecenas greatly, — 
the applause of the theatre on his first appearance 
there after recovering from a dangerous illness. 
Horace makes another reference to the same occur- 
rence (B. II. Ode 17, p. 130, ante). The theatre 
referred to was that built by Pompey, after the 
Mithridatic war, on the opposite side of the Tiber 
from Mount Vatican. The wines mentioned in the 
last stanza were all high-class Italian wines. The 
Cecuban was from a district of Latium, near Amy- 
cle and Fundi. The wines of Cales and Falernum, 
like the Massic wine, were from Campania. For- 
mz, now Mola di Gaeta, in Latium was supposed 
to be the capital of the Lestrygons. The wines of 
Campania, according to Pliny, were the finest. 


ODE XXII. p. 72. 


Of the Aristius Fuscus, to whom this Ode is 
addressed, nothing is known, except that Horace 
ranks him (Satires I. 10, 1. 83) with his friends 
Plotius, Varius, Mzcenas, Virgil, and others, and 
addressed to him the following Epistle, the Tenth 
of the First Book. : 

To Fuscus, our most city-loving friend, 

We, lovers of the country, greeting send — 

We, whom in this most diverse views divide, 

Though well-nigh twins in everything beside. 

True mental brothers we — what one denies 

The other questions; and in self-same wise 

Are we in fancies one, in tastes, in loves, 

As any pair of year-long mated doves. 


312 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


You keep the nest; I love the country brooks, 
The moss-grown rocks, and shady woodland nooks. 
And why? Because I live and am a king, 
The moment I can far behind me fling 
What you extol with rapture to the skies; 
And, like the slave that from the temple flies, 
Because on sweet-cakes he is daily fed, 
So I, a simple soul, lack simple bread, 
With honey’d dainties pall’d and surfeited. 

If it be proper, as it ever was, 
To live in consonance with nature’s laws; 
Or if we ’d seek a spot, whereon to raise 
A home to shelter our declining days, 
What place so fitting as the country ? Where 
Comes nipping winter with a kindler air ? 
Where find we breezes balmier to cool 
The fiery dog-days, when the sun’s at full? 
Or where is envious care less apt to creep, 
And scare the blessings of heart-easing sleep ? 
Is floor mosaic, gemm’d with malachite, 
One half so fragrant or one half so bright 
As the sweet herbage? Or the stream town-fed, 
That frets to burst its cerements of lead, 
More pure than that which shoots and gleams along, 
Murmuring its low and lulling undersong ? 
Nay, nay, your veriest townsman loves to shade 
With sylvan green his stately colonnade ; 
And his is deemed the finest house which yields 
The finest prospect of the open fields. 
Turn Nature, neck-and-shoulders, out of door, 
She Ill find her way to where she was before ; 
And imperceptibly in time subdue 
Wealth’s sickly fancies, and her tastes untrue. 

The man that’s wholly skill-less to desery 
The common purple from the Tyrian dye, 
Will take no surer harm, nor one that more 
Strikes to his marrow in its inmost core, 
Than he who knows not with instinctive sense 
‘Lo sever truth from falsehood and pretence. 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 313 


Whoe’er hath wildly wantoned in success, 

Him will adversity the more depress. 

What’s dearly prized we grudgingly forego. 

Shun mighty aus; the lowliest roof may know 

A life that more of heartfelt comfort brings, 

Than kings have tasted, or the friends of kings. 
Once on a time a stag, at antlers’ point, 

Expelled a horse he ’d worsted, from the joint 

Enjoyment of the pasture both had cropp’d: 

Still, when he ventured near it, rudely stopped, 

The steed called in man’s aid, and took the bit: 

Thus backed, he charged the stag, and conquer’d it. 

But woe the while! nor rider, bit, nor rein 

Could he shake off, and be himself again. 

So he, who, fearing poverty, hath sold 

His freedom, better than uncounted gold, 

Will bear a master and a master’s laws, 

And be a slave unto the end, because 

He will not learn, whatfits him most to know, 

How far, discreetly used, small means will go. 

Whene’er our mind ’s at war with our estate, 

Like an ill shoe, it trips us if too great ; 

Too small, it pinches. Thou art wisely bent 

To live, Aristius, with thy lot content ; ideo 

Nor wilt thou fail to chide in me the itch, 

Should it infect me, to be greatly rich; 

For hoarded wealth is either slave or lord, 

And should itself be pulled, not pull the cord. 
These near Vacuna’s crumbling fane I ’ve penned, 

Blest, save in this, in lacking thee, my friend. 


ODE XXIV. p. 74. 


In this Ode Horace condoles with Virgil on the 
death of their friend Quintilius Varus of Cremona, 
conjectured to be the same person to whom Ode 
XVIII. ante, is addressed. The pathos of this poem 
is genuine and profound, all the more so from the 

14 


314 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


cheerless absence of that hope of an after-life of 
which revelation was so soon to give the assurance. 
The traces in ancient literature of a belief in a 
better world beyond the grave are few and vague. 
It is impossible, however, that the nobler minds of 
Greece and Rome could have been without strong 
inward assurances, that their brief and troubled 
career on earth could not be the “ be all and the end 
all” of their existence. The yearnings of the soul 
for immortality, and for a higher and happier state 
of existence, must have been the same with them 
as with ourselves; and their affections were too 
intense to allow them to rest contentedly in the 
conviction, that those whom they had loved and 
lost in death became thenceforth as though they 
had never been. How often must the cry have. 
gone up from the Pagan breast, for which our great 
contemporary poet has found a voice ! 


O God, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us, 
What and where they be! 


Indeed, a belief in a life beyond the present, in 
which the perplexities of this life shall be resolved, 
and its inequalities adjusted, underlies the whole 
Pagan idea of Hades, with its punishments and 
rewards. — The subject is too wide to be pursued 
here. But in illustration of what the Pagan heart 
felt, when driven in its anguish to seek comfort 
_ from its instincts, where reason had no consolations 

to offer, we present translations of two of the most 
- exquisite poems of Catullus. The first is his ad- 
dress to his friend Calvus, on the death of his wife 
Quinctilia. 


Calvus, if those now silent in the tomb 
Can feel the touch of pleasure in our tears, 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 315 


For those we loved, that perish’d in their bloom; 
And the departed friends of former years; 

O, then, full surely thy Quinctilia’s woe, 
For the untimely fate that bade ye part, 

Will fade before the bliss she feels to know, 
How very dear she is unto thy heart ! * 


The other is his lamant over his brother’s grave. 
This brother had died upon the coast of Troy ; and 
Catullus made a pilgrimage to his tomb. 


O’er many a sea, o’er many a stranger land, 
I’ve come, my brother, to thy lonely tomb, 
To pay the last sad tribute to thy doom, 
And by thy silent ashes weeping stand. 
Vainly I call to thee. Who can command 
An answer forth frgm Orcus’ dreary gloom ? 
O, brother, brother, life lost all its bloom, 
When thou wert snatch’d from me with pitiless 
hand! 
A day will come, when we shall meet once more ! 


Meanwhile, these gifts, which to the honour’d 
rave 
Of those they loved in life our sires of yore 
With pious hand and reverential gave, 
Accept! Gifts moisten’d with a brother’s tears! 
And now, farewell, and rest thee from all fears ! 


ODE XXIX. p. 83. 


This Ode appears to have been written, when 
the expedition against the Arabians was first con- 








* In the same spirit is the following passage in the exquisite . 
letter of condolence, in which Ser. Sulpicius remonstrates with 
Cicero on his excessive grief for the death of his daughter Tullia. 
** Quod si qui etiam inferis sensus est, qui illius in te amor fuit, 
pietasque in omnes suos, hoc certe illa te facere non vult.” 


316 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


templated by Augustus. Vast expectations had 
been excited of the probable plunder of a people, 
who were the medium of commerce with the East, 

and had acquired a reputation for wealth which 
they did not possess. Iccius, possessed by the pre- 
vailing lust for riches, is rallied by Horace on his 
weakness in abandoning his literary and philo- 
sophic pursuits for so ienoble an end. It is proba- 
ble that Iccius subsequently joined the disastrous 
expedition under /Zlius Gailus in B. C. 24, and 
thereby impaired, instead of augmenting, his for- 
tune. Several years afterwards we find him acting 
as the resident agent for Agrippa’s great estates in 
Sicily. Time and experience had obviously not 
cured him of his yearning for wealth. Though of 
simple personal tastes he tormented himself with 
this insatiable passion ; and Horace, whose practice 
lent no ordinary force in this instance to his pre- 
cepts, rallies him upon his infirmity in the following 
Epistle, the 12th of the First Book. 


Dear Iccius, if you truly can 

Enjoy the fruits Sicilian, 
Which for Agrippa you collect, 
"T were very madness to expect, 
That greater plenty e’er should be 

- By kindly Jove bestow’d on thee. 
A truce to your complaints ; for poor 
That man is not, who can ensure - 
Whate’er for life is needful found. 
Let your digestion be but sound, 
Your side unwrung by spasm or stitch, 
Your foot unconscious of a twitch, 
And could you be more truly blest, 
Though of the wealth of kings possess’d ? 
If midst such choice of dainties rare, 
You live on herbs and hermit’s fare, 
You would live on so, young or old, 
Though fortune flooded you with gold; 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


Because ’t is not in power of pelf 

To make you other than yourself, 

Or else because you virtue deem 

Above all other things supreme. 

What wonder then, if, whilst his soul, 
Of body heedless, swept the pole, 
Democritus allow’d his beeves 

Make havoc of his plants and sheaves, 
When you midst such contagious itch 
Of being and becoming rich, 

Pursue your studies’ noble bent, 

On themes sublime alone intent; 

What causes the wild ocean’s sway, 

The seasons what from June to May ; 

If free the constellations roll, 

Or moved by some supreme control ; 
What makes the moon obscure her light, 
What pours her splendour on the night; 
Whence concord rises from the jar 

Of atoms that discordant are, 

Which crazed, — both were so, if you please, 
Stertinius or Empedocles ? 

But whether to your simple dish 

You stick of onions, pulse, or fish, 
Pompeius Grosphus welcome make, — 
And grant him freely, for my sake, 
Whate’er he asks you, sure of this, 

*T will not be anything amiss. 

Friends are most cheaply purchased, when 
We can oblige such worthy men. 

_ And now, then, to apprise you, how 
Stand Roman politics just now ! 
Agrippa’s prowess has laid low 
The Spaniard; the Armenian foe 
To Claudius Nero’s arms has bow’d ; 
Phraites on his knees avow’d, 

That Cesar’s rights and Ceesar’s sway 
He will acknowledge and obey ; 

And from her full horn Plenty pours 
Her fruits on our Italian shores. 


317 


= 


818 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 


The Pompeius Grosphus here mentioned, a Ro- 
man knight, and a man of wealth, was a native of 
Sicily. Ode XVI. B. I. is addressed to him. 


ODE XXXI. p. 85. 


This Ode was composed on the occasion of the 
dedication by Augustus, B. C. 28, of the Temple to 
Apollo, on Mount Palatine, in which also he depos- 
ited his library. 


ODE XXXIIL. p. 88. 


Aulus Albius Tibullus, the elegiac poet, served 
with Messala in Aquitania. B. C. 28-27. He 
died young, B. C. 19, about the same time as Vir- 

il. Young and handsome as he must have been, 
when this Ode was written, he had obviously been 
cut out of Glycera’s favour by some younger rival. 
Young Telephus had served Horace a similar turn 
with Lydia (ante, Ode 13); but the poet does not 
give his friend the benefit of that experience, which 
he probably would have done, had the Ode in 
question been founded on fact. It seems idle to 
attempt to connect the Glycera of this Ode with 
the Glycera of Ode 19 of the same Book, or of Ode 
19, Book III.; or the Pholoé here mentioned with 
the Pholoé of Ode 5, B. IL, or 15, B. III These 
were no doubt merely convenient poetical names. 
The characters they indicate are typical, and the 
poet’s readers would be at no loss to find frail beau- 
ties in abundance with whom to identify them. 
The kind of consolation suggested in this Ode was 
not likely to soothe the sentimental Tibullus. “The 
sight of lovers feedeth those in love,” but it is noth- 
ing to a lover in despair, that others have survived 
. a similar ordeal. “ Hang up philosophy, unless 
philosophy can make a Juliet !” 


NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 319 


A very agreeable picture of the friendship be- 
tween Horace and Tibullus is presented in the fol- 
lowing Epistle (4. B. I.) addressed to the latter at 
- his country seat at Pedum, now Zagarola, a small 
town in the neighbourhood of Preneste, the mod- 
ern Palestrina. 


Albius, kind critic of my Satires, how 
Shall I report of thee as busied now, 
Down there in Pedum at that box of thine? 
- Inditing verses, destined to outshine 
Cassius of Parma’s in his finest moods ? 
Or sauntering silent through the healthful woods, 
In lonely reveries devising what 
May best engage a wise and good man’s thought ? 
Thou never wert, nor art thou, friend, to-day, 
A mere dull mass of breathing soulless clay. 
The gods have given thee beauty, wealth, and skill 
To use and to enjoy thy gifts at will. 
What more or better for her darling could 
Fond nurse desire, than that, like thee, he should 
Be sage, — with grace whate’er he thinks express,— 
And that to him im all his aims success, 
Renown, and health should bountifully fall, 
A board well served, and bins well stock’d withal ? 
*Twixt hopes and tremors, fears and frenzies pass’d, 
Regard each day, as though it were thy last. 
So shall chance seasons of delight arise, 
And overtake thee with a sweet surprise. 
Come, visit me! Thou ’It find me plump and fair, 
In high condition, sleek and debonair, — 
Yea, if on me disposed thy wit to try, 
A very hog of Epicurus’ sty. 


ODE XXXVIL. p. 93. 


This Ode appears to have been written, soon 
after the tidings of the death of Cleopatra reached 


320 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. — 


Rome. Modern critics have discovered that she 
did not die by the poison of asps. What do they 
not discover? But at all events, it is clear, that 
the Romans, with Horace at their head, held the 
common faith, which Shakespeare has firmly es- 
tablished for all true Englishmen. The noble 
close of this Ode will remind the English reader of 
the lines, which they may perhaps have sick ri 
in Mr. Tennyson’s Dream of Fair Women. 


I died a queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever! lying robed and crown’d, 
Worthy a Roman spouse. 


The poem alludes both to the battle of Actium - 
B. C. 31, and the battle at Alexandria in the fol- 
lowing year, which completed the defeat of Anthony 
and his royal paramour. 


NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 


ODE I. p. 99. 


Caius Asinius Pollio was in his youth a partisan 
of C. Julius Cesar, and accompanied him on his in- 
vasion of Italy B. C. 45. He also fought in Africa 
against king Juba, was engaged in the battle of 
Pharsalia, and subsequently in a campaign in Africa. 
In B. C. 44. he held the command of Farther Spain. 
He joined the triumvirs, and became consul in 
B. C. 40. In the following year he overcame the 
Parthini, a people of Dalmatia, and then abandoned 
political life. He was an early patron of Virgil, 
who speaks of his tragedies in these high terms : 


Sola Sophocleo tua carmina digna cothurno. 
Ecl. VII. 10. 


As an orator he was distinguished, and not less so 
as an historian. ‘The events of the period which he 
had selected were so recent, and the passions of 
_ party so fierce, that Horace gracefully warns him 
of the perils of his task, while complimenting him 
on the picturesque force with which he is certain to 
execute it. It is clear, from the terms in which 
Tacitus (Ann. IV. 34) alludes to his History, that 
Pollio spoke fearlessly in praise of Cassius, Brutus, 
and other enemies of Augustus. 
14* U 


322 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 


Juno and whosoe’er, &c.  Astarte, the queen of 
heaven, interpreted by the Romans as Juno, the 
tutelary goddess of Carthage, was worshipped by the 
Phenicians. Dishonoured and driven from Car- 
thage by the successful Romans, the goddess retali- 
ates upon them by the slaughter of Romans in 
Africa. ‘The Romans,” says Mr. Newman, “ who 
fell with Curio against King Juba B. C. 49, and 
afterwards at Thapsus against Cesar, are here said 
to have been sacrificed by the African deities to 
the Spirit of Jugurtha.” 


ODE VI. p. 109. 


Titius Septimius, an old companion in arms of 
Horace, possessed an estate at Tarentum, where 
the poet visited him after the celebrated journey 
to Brundusium (B. C. 40) the details of which form 
the subject of the Fifth Satire of the First Book, 
and on other occasions. He was a poet, and imi- 
tated Pindar with success. (See Horace’s Epistles, — 
B. I. 3.) When Tiberius Claudius Nero, the fu- 
ture Emperor, was preparing to set out on his east- 
ern campaign in B.C. 23, Horace wrote recom- 
mending his friend Septimius to his notice in the 
following terms. (Epistles, I. 9.) This epistle is 
mentioned as a judicious specimen of what an intro- 
duction should be, in a paper in the Spectator 
(No. 493). 


Septimius only understands, ’t would seem, 
How high I stand in, Claudius, your esteem; 
For when he begs and prays me day by day, 
Before you his good qualities to lay, 

As one who not unworthily may find 

A place in Nero’s household, Nero’s mind ; 
When he supposes, you to me extend 
The rights and place of a familiar friend, 


NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 323 


Much better than myself he sees and knows, 
How far with you my commendation goes. 

A thousand arguments at least I’ve used, 

Why from this office I should go excused, 

Yet fear’d the while, it might be thought I feign’d 
Too low what influence I perchance have gain’d ; 
Dissembling it as nothing with my friends, 

To keep it solely for my private ends. 

Escaping thus the heavier disgrace, 

I’ve stoop’d into the unblushing suitor’s place. 
But if you deem it worthy some applause, 

To doff my bashfulness in friendship’s cause, 
Then in your suite, I pray, this friend enrol, 
And. trust him brave, and good, and true of soul. 


This letter of introduction, in itself a master-piece 
of tact, obviously had the desired effect. Septimius 
was admitted into Claudius Nero’s suite, and was 
serving under him in the East, when Horace wrote 
the Epistle (B. I. 3) to Julius Florus, Nero’s sec- 
retary. 


ODE VII. p. 111. 


Whom will Venus send to rule our revel? The allu- 
sion here is to the practice, taken by the Romans 
from the Greeks, of appointing a king or dictator of 
the feast, who prescribed the laws of the feast, 
which the guests were bound, under penalties, 
to obey. Sometimes this office was assigned to 
the master or even the mistress of the house, but 
commonly it fell to such of the guests as made the 
highest throw of the dice, which was called Venus, 
the lowest being distinguished as Canis. The chair- 
man thus selected settled the number of cups to be 
drunk. Bumpers were the rule and no heel-taps 
allowed. He was entitled to call upon any one for 
a song, or a recitation, and kept the mirth from be- 
coming too fast and furious. Lipsius records fifteen 


324 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 


of the ordinary laws upon such occasions. Ten 
bumpers were the usual allowance, nine in honour 
of the Muses, and one to Apollo. Every gentle- 
man, who had a mistress was to toast her, when re- 
quired. There was to be no wrangling or noise, — 
an injunction apt to be slighted, if we may judge 
by the frequency with which Horace enforces it. 
A penalty was frequently attached to requiring a 
man to name his mistress, which was somewhat se- 
rious to those who, like Cassio, had.“ poor and un- 
happy brains for drinking.” The challenger was 
bound to empty a cup to each letter of the lady’s 
name. Sometimes, when the gallant had reasons 
for secrecy, he merely announced the number of 
cups which had to be drunk. From these the com- 
pany might divine her name if they could. Thus 
six cups were drunk for Nevia, seven for Justina, 
five for Lycas, four for Lydé, three for Ida. (Mar- 
tial. I, 7. and VIII, 51.) Most of these practices our 
grandfathers revived with a truly Pagan vigour. 


ODE IX. p. 114. 


C. Valgius Rufus is one of the circle of valued 
friends, whom Horace mentions (I. Sat. X. 81). 
He was an Epic poet and rhetorician of great emi- 
nence, of whom Tibullus, or, more probably, some 
rhetorician of a more recent period, says: 


Est tibi qui possit magnis se accingere rebus 
Valgius: ceterno propior non alter Homero 


IVine Y78% 


Remember, friend, that sage old man. Nestor, 
whose son Antilochus, while defending his father, 
was slain by Memnon. The slaughtered Troilus ; 
slain by Achilles. — He was the brother of Poly- 
xena, Cassandra, &c., daughters of Priam. pee 


NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 325 


ODE XI. p. 118. 


And bring to our revel that charming recluse. It 
may be thought that the “ devium scortum ” of the 
original is too much softened down in our version. 
But Horace obviously means to speak of this young 
lady playfully and kindly. She was apparently 
coy and hard to be got hold of, —- not ready to answer 
to every body’s call; — and “shy little puss ” may 
be sustituted for “ charming recluse ” by those who 
adopt this view. 


What boy, then, shall best in the brook’s deepest pool 
Our cup of the fiery Falernian cool ? 


A cupbearer, who was master of the art of cool- 
ing wine to the right point, must always have been 
in request. The mixing of wine with water, which 
was the constant practice of the Romans, was also 
probably reduced to an art, of which their attend- 
ants made a study. Catullus pays a glowing trib- 
ute to his cupbearer for his skill in serving wine — 
thus. 


Boy, that pours as none else can, 
The bubbling old Falernian, 

Fill our goblets — theirs and mine — 
With the very mightiest wine. 
Posthumia is our queen to-night. 
Brimming cups are her delight. 

Not the juice that courses through 
The vine, and gives the grape its hue, 
More native there, than is the bowl 
Congenial to her festive soul ! 

Take the water hence, my boy, 
Death to wine, and death to joy ! 
_Deep-brow’d sages, they may quaff it, 
We aside shall ever daff it. 

God Lyzus, none but he, 
In our mantling cups shall be! 


326 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 


ODE XII. p. 120. 


Some critics, following Bentley, suppose the 
Licymnia of this Ode to be Mecenas’s wife Licinia 
Terentia. A stronger illustration could scarcely 
be conceived of the extreme lengths into which 
the mania for identifying Horace’s women with 
real personages has carried scholars. Licymnia 
was much more probably the “ puella” mentioned 
in the Third Epode. It was quite consistent with 
Roman manners for a poet to write thus of his 
friend’s mistress; but not so of his wife, even 
although the tie of marriage, as in Terentia’s case, 
was of the loosest possible kind. Mecenas was 
continually putting her away, and, forthwith, un- 
able to forget her fascinations, taking her back 
again; which gave rise to the saying, recorded by 
Seneca, that “he had been a thousand times mar- 
ried, and yet never had but one wife.” In the 
14th Epode Horace again alludes’ to Mecenas’s 
mistress. The Roman gentleman seems to have 
had as little scruple as a modern Parisian in bla- 
zoning his amours to his friends. Nor, if we may 
draw the natural inference both from these poems 
of Horace, and the following poem by Catullus, 
were his poetical friends at all averse to making 
them the themes of their verse. 


Flavius, if you’d have them shine, 
These sub rosa joys of thine, 
With a fashionable grace, 
Above all vulgar commonplace, 
You’d never let Catullus doubt 
The kind of sport you are about. 
If now the girl were handsome! But 
I fear me she’s a sorry slut — 
A common thing, and this is why 
You keep your secret all so sly. 
Nay, never look so modest! Own 
Your evenings are not spent alone. 


NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 827 


You chaste as Dian! O, no, no! 

Why keep you, then, your chamber so? 
And whence this rich distill’d perfume 
Of roses, filling all the room ? 

And, as I live, a tiny pair 

Of slippers underneath the chair! 

All these too plainly tell the tale, 

E’en though your cheeks were not so pale: 
And so you'd best confess outright ; 

Be she a beauty, or a fright, 

I care not! Only let me know it, 

I’m ready to become her poet, 

And deify, with verses rare, 

You and your little love affair! 


This reminds one of the famous screen scene in 
The School for Scandal, with the little French mil- 
liner, and Sir Peter Teazle’s “I’ll swear I saw a 
petticoat! sly rogue, sly rogue!” 


ODE XIIL. p. 122. 


Although the tone of this Ode is half-sportive, 
the incident it records appears to have impressed 
Horace deeply. He alludesto it again on two 
several occasions (B. II. Ode 17. and B. III. Ode 
4.) in the most serious terms, and a third time, in 
B. Ill. Ode 8, we find him celebrating the anni- 
versary of his escape on the Kalends of March by 
the sacrifice of a snow-white goat to Bacchus. 


ODE XVIIL p. 132. 


Nor Attalus’ imperial chair Have I usurp’d, &c. 
The poet is here supposed to allude to Aristonicus 
the illegitimate son of Attalus, who usurped the 
kingdom, which had been bequeathed by Attalus 


328 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 


to the Romans, but was expelled by them under 
Perpenna B. C. 129. Laconian purples. Wools 
dyed with the murex, which produced the celebra- 
ted purple, and was found, among other places, at 
Teenaron in Laconia. 


ODE XIX. p. 134. 


Now may I chant her honours, too, thy bride, &e. 
The allusion is to Ariadne, and the golden crown 
hoe to her by Bacchus, and which, after her 

eath, was translated to the skies, where it is rep- 
resented by the nine stars forming the Corona 
Borealis. — The Halls of Pentheus shattered in their 
pride. Pentheus, king of Thebes, having opposed 
the Bacchanalian orgies, was torn in pieces by the 
Bacchanalian women. — And of Lycurgus the disas- 
trous story. ‘The story of Lycurgus of Thrace is 
variously told. He drove the Mznads across Nysa, 
for which he was blinded by Jupiter (Ilad VI. 130) 
or, according to Sophocles (Antigone 955), shut up 
in a cave. According to later legends, he was 
driven mad by Bacchus, because of his having cut 
down the vines, and in his frenzy killed his son 
Dryas, and mutilated himself. The allusion in the 
last verse of the Ode is to the descent of Bacchus 
into 'Tartarus, from which he brought up his moth- 
er Semele and led her to Olympus, where she took 
her place under the name of ‘Thyone. 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


ODE I. p. 141. 


The Pindaric Verse, introduced by Cowley, and 
carried by Dryden to perfection, has been adopted 
in translating this Ode, the 14th Ode of the 
Fourth Book, and the Secular Hymn, as the only 
measure in which the requisite freedom of move- 
ment could be attained for grappling with the 
originals. This verse, whilst in some respects it 
tempts to amplification, is favourable to closeness in 
others, inasmuch as the translator is not tied down 
as In our ordinary stanza to a regularly recurring 
rhyme. Dryden with his usual mastery of critical 
exposition has said all that can be said of this noble 
form of verse. ‘ For variety, or rather where the 
majesty of thought requires it, the numbers may be 
stretched to the English Heroic of five feet, and to 
the French Alexandrine of six. But the ear must 
preside, and direct the judgment to the choive 
of numbers. Without the nicety of this the har- 
mony of Pindaric verse can never be complete; 
the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the 
next ; and the sound of dhe former must slide gently 
into that which follows, without leaping from one ex- 
treme into another. It must be done like the shadow- 
ings of a picture, which fall by degrees into a darker 
colour.” 


330 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


* 


ODE V. p. 153. 


Has any legionary, who His falchion under Cras- 
sus drew, &c. The defeat of the Romans under 
Crassus (B. C. 53) by the Parthians, was one of 
the most signal disgraces ever sustained by the Ro- 
man arms. ‘Their standards fell into the hands of 
the enemy, and many of the Roman prisoners had 
accepted their fate, married Parthian women, and 
become the subjects of a Parthian king. This, as 
the Ode intimates, was felt to be a blot upon the 
national honour. At the time this Ode was written 
Augustus was no doubt projecting a campaign to 
recover the standards, and retrieve the defeat, 
which, despite the lapse of thirty years, still ran- 
kled with peculiar bitterness in the Roman mind. 
This object was subsequently achieved by treaty 
(B. C. 23), when Augustus seized the opportunity 
of an embassy from Phraates to Rome, to treat for 
the surrender of his son, then a hostage in the 
hands of Augustus, to stipulate for the delivery of 
the captured standards and the surviving prisoners. 
Many of the latter killed themselves, rather than 
return, probably either from grief at the disruption 
of the ties they had formed, or in apprehension of 
being dealt with by Augustus as deserters. 


ODE VII. p. 159. 


To Asterié. Whether this lady was the mistress 
or wife of Gyges is not very clear. The fact, that 
Enipeus was in the habit of serenading under her 
windows, rather points to the former conclusion. 
These serenades, practised by the Greeks, and by 
them called paraclausithura, were a common re- 
source of the Roman gallants. A specimen of one 
occurs in Ode X. of this Book.—In this respgct 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 331 


manners had undergone little change in Italy, when, 
almost in the words of Horace, Shylock laid this 
injunction upon Jessica : 


Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum, 
And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck’d fife, 
Clamber not you up to the casement then, 

Nor thrust your head into the public street. 


Bithynia, the modern Anatolia, to which Gyges 
had gone, was the emporium of the commerce of 
Asia Minor and all the rich Greek colonies on the 
shores of the Black Sea. He has been compelled 
to put in at Oricum, (the modern Erikho) in Epi- 
rus, to wait for the finer weather of spring. Aste- 
rie, Horace seems to surmise, has begun to indicate, 
that she is not altogether inconsolable. 


ODE X. p. 164. 


To Lyce. This Lady has been assumed to be one 
of Horace’s many mistresses, upon what appear to 
be very insufficient grounds. The poem is more 
like a jeu d’esprit, than a serious appeal —a mere 
quiz upon the serenades of forlorn lovers. How 
like is the picture it presents to that in Lydia Lan- 
guish’s confession to her friend Julia! ‘* How mor- 
tifying, to remember the dear delicious shifts one 
used to be put to, to gain half a minute’s conversa- 
tion with this fellow! How often have I stole forth, 
in the coldest night in January, and found him in the 
garden, stuck like a dripping statue! ‘There would 
he kneel to me in the snow, and cough so patheti- 
cally ! he shivering with cold and I with apprehen- 
sion! And while the freezing blast numbed our 
joints, how warmly would he press me to pity his 
flame, and glow with mutual ardour !— Ah, Julia, 
that was something like being in love!” But there 
was no drop of “the blood of the Absolutes” in 
the veins of the little bard of Venusia. 


332 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


ODE XU. p. 171. 


To the Bandusian Fountain. The situation of 
the fountain ennobled in this Ode is still disputed. 
Lombardi, Fea, Walckenaer, and the Dean of St. 
Paul’s assert, that it was at Palazzo, six miles from 
Venusia. Others maintain that it was in the Val- 
ley of Licenza near the “ Sabine Farm,” but differ 
as to the identification of the particular spring. In 
defence of the former theory it is alleged, that the 
village of Palazzo was anciently called “ Bandu- 
sium,” and that, in some documents found in a 
neighbouring monastery, and dated A. D. 1103, 
mention is made of the “ Fons Bandusinus apud 
Venusiam.” Admitting the existence and genu- 
ineness of the document,—a large admission. when 
we call to mind the countless forgeries of Italian 
antiquaries, — what is there to prove that this was 
not a fancy name given to the fountain in question 
in honour of Horace’s Ode? It was just what the 
monks would do, especially Venusian monks, proud 
of their countryman Horace, and anxious that their 
dae should become one ‘“nobilium fontium.” 

gain, no other Ode of the 3d Book was written 
(so far as we can judge) earlier than 725 A. U. C. 
and it is quite certain that Horace’s connection 
witlr Venusia and its neighbourhood was broken off 
by the confiscation of his paternal farm in 712, 
when he returned to Rome “ inops paterni et laris et 
fund.” There is no hint given of -any restoration 
of the property, or of his ever having returned to 
live at Venusia; on the contrary, we know that 
after this period he lived chiefly at Rome, passing 
the villegiatura at his Sabine farm or at Tivoli. In 
his occasional visits to Tarentum he probably passed 
near, or even through, Venusia, but he nowhere 
speaks of it, except with reference to the incidents 
of his childhood and boyhood. It is clear, however, 
that the Fons Bandusize was a favourite haunt of 


~ 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 333 


his, near the pastures where his sheep and goats 
were feeding, and the furrows which his oxen were 
ploughing. I regard it, therefore, as almost certain 
that the fountain was on his Sabine Farm. ‘That 
this farm was in the Valley of Licenza is undoubted, 
and the remains of a Roman Villa at the head of 
the valley very probably mark the site of that which 
belonged to Horace. Perhaps the most elaborate, 
as well as most recent account of the site is that 
given by Mr. Dennis in a letter printed by Dean 
Milman in his Edition of Horace (London, Mur- 
ray, 1849). I have gone carefully over the same 
ground, and can confirm the accuracy of Mr. Den- 
nis’s general description. I differ from him, how- 
ever, in one or two points, especially as to the 
situation of the fountain of Bandusia. This he 
identifies with a spring in the rugged bed of a 
stream, dry in summer, which comes down from 
Lucretiles. In search of the spot, I was conducted 
(on the 23d of September, 1858) by a peasant to 
what he affirmed to be generally known by the 
name of the “ Fonte Blandusi,” on the left bank of 
the above-mentioned torrent, where a little runlet 
of water trickled out from a grassy bank overhung 
with a wild fig-tree. Finding that this by no means 
corresponded with Mr. Dennis’s description, I ex- 
pressed my doubts, when my guide at once admit- 
ted that, though travellers were usually content 
with that « Fonte Blandusi,” yet that “il vero fonte” 
was half a mile further up. Accordingly, clamber- 
ing up avery rugged path, we came at last to the 
a exquisitely Arcadian ” spot described by Mr. Den- 
nis, but, alas! the fountain was dry! And this after 
our rough scramble of two miles from the villa. 
Surely this cannot be the 


Tecto vicinus jugis aque fons, 


which the poet wished for, and got. 


one | 
334 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


There is, however, within a few hundred yards 
of the villa, a most abundant spring, “rivo dare 
nomen idoneus,” called “ Fonte della Corte,” which 
I suppose to be the same_as that which was called 
in Eustace’s time Fonte Bello. Near it are the 
ruins of a house called “la Corte,” the owners of 
which, in the 17th century probably, by building a 
wall some distance below where the spring, clear 
and cold, ut nee Frigidior Thracam nee purior am- 
biat Hebrus, bursts out from the steep hill side have: 
made an artificial cascade. The ground about is 
now cultivated, but I see no reason why the foun- 
tain in its natural state may not have corresponded 
exactly with the description of the poet, and leaped 
from rock to rock beneath overshadowing holm- 
oaks. A little further down towards Rocea Giovine 
are some fields called “ gli Oraziani” (probably a 
- modern fancy name,) where is another fountain, but 
too scanty to dispute the title of Fons Bandusie 
with the Fonte della Corté. 

Let me add, that my guide said, that the Fonte 
della Corte was also called “ Fonte Blandusi.” In 
fact, they are quite ready to give the name to 
whichever fountain the traveller pleases ! 

For the above note, as for many most valuable 
suggestions during the passage of these sheets 
through the press, I am indebted to my friend the 
Rey. W. G. Clark, Public Orator in the University 
of Cambridge. 


ODE XIV. p. 172. 


To the Romans. This Ode was written apparently 
in anticipation of the return of Augustus to Rome, 
at the conclusion of his victorious campaign in 
Spain, B. C. 25. Livia Drusilla, his wife, and Oc- 
tavia his sister, the widow of Mare Antony, are 
summoned to lead the procession to the temples for 
a public thanksgiving; while the poet resolves to 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 335 


make merry over wine, which, if we are to construe 
literally the allusion to the Marsie war in B. C. 91- 
98, was at least sixty-four years old. This wine was 
old even at the time of the insurrection, B. C. 73—- 
72, of gladiators and slaves under Spartacus, whose 
marauding clutch Horace intimates it could scarcely 
have escaped. It is contended that the Nera of 
this Ode is the Nera of the 15th Epode, with whom 
Horace there remonstrates for her infidelity, and 
that the concluding lines indicate that in the days 
of Plancus’s consulate (B. C. 42), when Horace’s 
was twenty-four, he would have knocked down that 
lady’s porter, if he had given him a surly answer. 
That he would “in his bot youth” have handled 
roughly the concierge of that Nezra, or any other 
lady of her profession, is most probable. But the 
Nera of the 15th Epode was by this time seven- 
teen years older at least; and there was no such 
dearth of younger beauties of her class as to com- 
pel us to conclude, that she and she only could be 
the Nera here referred to. 


ODE XVI. p. 175. 


Argos’ augur. Amphiaraus. For his story see 
Smith’s Dic. of Greek and Roman Biography, V. I 
p- 148. —’T' was by bribes the Macedoman, &c. It 
was a boast of Philip of Macedon, that he could 
take any fortress into which an ass could mount 
laden with gold. — Our bluffest navy captains. It is 
generally considered, that a sarcasm is here directed 
against Menas, the freedman of Pompey the Great, 
and the Admiral of Sextus Pompeius, who alter- 
nately betrayed both parties, and was ultimately 
made Tribunus Militum by Augustus for his traitor- 
ous services. See Epode IV., where he is merci- 
lessly scourged. — The realms of Alyattes wedded to 
Mygdonia’s plains. Lydia. Alyattes was the father 
of Creesus, proverbial for his wealth, and by Mygdo- 
nia’s plains Horace understands Phrygia, 


336 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


The sentiment of the concluding part of this Ode 
has been embodied with truly Horatian spirit in the 
following beautiful song in the old play of The Pa- 
_ tient Grissell by Dekker, Chettle, and Haughton. 


SWEET CONTENT. 


Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? 
O, sweet content ! 

Art thou rich, yet in thy mind perplexed ? 
O, punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see, how fools are vexed, 

To add to golden numbers golden numbers ? 
O, sweet content ! 


Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring ? 
O, sweet content ! 
Swim ’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own 
tears ? 
O, punishment! 
Then he that patiently want’s burden bears, 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O, sweet content ! 


ODE XVIL p. 178. 


To Azlius Lamia. This is the same Lucius /Hlius 
Lamia, to whom the Ode I. 26 is addressed. This 
family claimed for their ancestor Lamus, king of 
the Lestrygones, who is said by tradition to have 
founded Formie. The ode reads like a: little 
friendly note, sent to Lamia by the poet on the eve 
of some family holiday. 


ODE XXI. p. 183. 


To a jar of wine. This joyous panegyric of the 
virtues of wine will hold its own against anything 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. Sse 


which has been written on the subject. Horace’s 
views were akin to those of The Preacher — “ Give 
him strong drink who is ready to perish, and wine 
unto those that be of heavy heart. Let him drink 
and forget his poverty, and remember his poverty 
no more.” Burns in his own vigorous way echos 
unconsciously the very words of ae 


Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin,’ 

Though life’s a gift no worth receivin,’ 

When heavy dragg’d wi’ pine and grievin’ ; 
But, oiled by thee, 

The wheels o’ life gae down-hill scrievin’ 
Wy rattlin’ glee. 


Thou clears the head o’ doited lair, 
Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping care, 
Thou strings the nerves o’ labour sair 
At ’s weary toil; 
Thou even brightens dark despair 
WY gloomy ‘smile. 


ODE XXVII. p. 193. 


To Galatea. The lady, to whom this beautiful 
Ode is addressed appears to have been some Ro- 
man matron of Horace’s acquaintance, about to 
visit Greece. The allusion to the evil omens 
remind us, with what tenacity superstition clings 
to the human mind; when we see that neither 
revelation nor science have yet extinguished the 
belief in many of those to which Horace refers. 
The transition to the story of Europa is abrupt, 
according to our notions; but a reference to this 
triumphant beauty’s troubles and glory was an 
implicit compliment to the beauty and attractions 
of Galatea. 

Lor Vv 


838 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


Place me, ye gods, in righteous wrath, 
Naked upon the lion’s path, &c. p. 195. 


This appeal seems to have been a kind of “ com- 
mon form” in Roman poetry. One of the most 
noticeable instances in which it occurs is in what 
Mr. Tennyson calls “ that Latin song I learned at 
school,” in which Love is made to “ Sneeze out a 
full God-bless you right and left,” — Catullus’s 


ACME AND SEPTIMIUS. 


Septimius, holding on his breast 

Acme, thus the maid addressed : — 

*“ Acme, if I love thee not 

Dearly as my dearest thought, 

Nor will love thee, love thee still 

With a love years shall not chill, 

May I, sweet, on Lybia’s sand, 

Or in India’s burning land, 

In my solitary path 

Meet the tawny lion’s wrath !” 
As thus he spoke, Love, who was near, — 

Listening with attentive ear, 

Heard him his devotion plight, 

And sneezed propitious on the right. 
Then Acme, with a gentle grace 

Bending back her rosy face, 

Kissed the eyes of that sweet boy, 

That swam beneath her lips with joy. 

“‘ Septimius, my life,” she cries, 

“Thine is the only heart I prize ; 

And this, and this, my witness be, 

That thou art all in all to me! 

For fondly as thy heart may beat, 

In mine there glows a fiercer heat, 

And mightier is the flame that reigns 

Through all your own fond Acme’s veins.” 
As thus she spoke, Love, who was near, 

Listening with attentive ear, 


NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 339 


And heard her thus her passion plight, 
Sneezed propitious on the right. 

With such fair omens blest, the twain 
Love, and are fondly loved again. 
Septimius prizes Acme’s smiles 
Above the East, or Britain’s Isles ; 

By faithful Acme is her lord 
With all her early love adored. 
Were ever pair so blest as these 
By Venus’ brightest auspices | 


ODE XXIX. p. 197. 


This Ode will probably always be read in Eng- 
lish in Dryden’s noble version, which, as a whole, 
is certainly finer than the original. The following 
passage, of which a faint suggestion only is to be 
found in Horace, is highly characteristic of the 
genius of Dryden, and his peculiar mastery of the 
great rhythmical resources of our language. 


Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
He, who can call to-day his own; | : 
He, who, secure within, can say, 
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. 
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, 
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. 
Not heaven itself upon the past has power ; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my 
hour. 
Fortune, that with malicious joy 
Does man her slave oppress, 
Proud of her office to destroy, 
Is seldom pleased to bless : 
Still various, and unconstant still, 
But with an inclination to be ill, 
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 
And makes a lottery of life. 


340 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 


I can enjoy her while she’s kind ; 
But when she dances in the wind, 
And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 
I puff the prostitute away ; 
The little or the much she gave is quietly resign’d ; 
Content with poverty my soul I arm; 
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. 


Nor always from afar survey, &c. From Mece- 
nas’s palace on the Esquiline hill, he could com- 
mand a view of ‘Tibur, the modern Tivoli, Aésula, 
(the site of which is unknown, but which probably 
lay between Preneste and Tibur,) and Tusculum, 
built on a hill above the modern Frascati, and said 
to have been founded by Telegonus, son of Circe 
by Ulysses, whom he slew in ignorance of the fact 
of his paternity. The “ Circean walls of Tusculum ” 
are again referred to in the First Epode. 


NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 


ODE I. p. 205. 


The pains of Love. This Ode has been for the 
most part so admirably rendered by Ben Jonson, 
that only such alterations have been made upon his 
version as were necessary to bring it into harmony 
with the modern diction of the other translations. 


ODE Ill. p. 210. 


Julius Scaliger said of this Ode, and the Ame- 
bean Ode, (Book III. 9,) that he would rather have 
written them than be king of Arragon. 

The following version by Bishop Atterbury holds 
a high place among Horatian translations. 


He on whose natal hour the queen 
Of verse hath smiled, shall never grace 
The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen 
First in the famed Olympian race. 
He shall not, after toils of war, 
And taming haughty monarchs’ pride, 
With laurell’d brows conspicuous far 
To Jove’s Tarpeian temple ride. | 
But him the streams which warbling flow 
Rich Tibur’s fertile vales along, 


342 NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 


And shady groves, his haunts, shail know 
The master of the AZolian song. 
The sons of Rome, majestic Rome, 
Have placed me in the poets’ quire, 
And envy now, or dead, or dumb, 
Forbears to blame what they admire. 
Goddess of the sweet-sounding lute, 
_ Which thy harmonious touch obeys, 
Who mak’st the finny race, though mute, 
The cygnet’s dying accent raise, 
Thy gift it is, that all with ease 
Me prince of Roman lyrists own ; 
That, while I live, my numbers please, 
If pleasing, is thy gift alone. 


ODE IV. p. 211. 


THE PRAISES OF Drusus. Drusus was the son 
of Tiberius Claudius Nero and his wife Livia, and 
was born three months after Livia, who had been 
divorced by Nero, had been married to Augustus. 
His elder brother Tiberius, by the same father, was 
adopted by Augustus, but Drusus was not, as though 
with the view of giving the lie to the current scan- 
dal, that an intimacy had subsisted between Livia 
and Augustus before her divorce from Claudius 
Nero. Of the two, Drusus was, however, most in 
favour with Augustus. He possessed, according to 
Velleins Paterculus (II. 97), every natural endow- 
ment, carried by culture to perfection. He was 
only twenty-three years old, when he achieved the 
great victory celebrated in this Ode. The Vinde- 
lici, who occupied that part of modern Bavaria 
which lies between the Tyrol and the Lech and its 
tributaries, had formed an alliance with the Rheeti, 
a race of wild mountaineers, who occupied the Ty- 
rol, the Vorarlberg, and the Grisons. They were 
in the habit of making descents upon the plains of 


NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 343 


northern Italy, for purposes of plunder and destruc- 
tion. Drusus forced his way through the passes of 
the Tyrolese Alps and defeated them; while his 
brother Tiberius, crossing the Lake of Constance, 
made a diversion, which enabled Drusus to com- 
plete their overthrow. All the young men of the 
enemy, who were not slain, were carried prisoners 
to Rome, only such of the population being left 
behind as were necessary for the tillage of the soil. 
The victory was complete and conclusive. Augus- 
tus is said to have prescribed the theme of this Ode 
to the poet, who executed his task with consum- 
mate skill. Through both their parents, Tiberius 
and Drusus were descended from both the consuls, 
Livius and Nero, who defeated Hasdrubal at the 
Metaurus, B. C. 207,— a circumstance which the 
poet has turned to excellent advantage. 


ODE V. p. 215. 


The husband in the child we trace. 'This evidence 
of the chastity of the mother is greatly insisted on 
in Greek and Roman poetry. The following amus- 
ing anecdote is told by Macrobius. A provincial, 
who had gone to Rome on business, drew crowds 
after him by his great resemblance to Augustus. 
The emperor, hearing of this, had him sent for, and 
struck by the likeness, asked him, “ Young man, 
was your mother ever in Rome?” “Never,” re- 
plied the provincial, “ but my father often was.” 


ODE XII. p. 229. 


Now buildeth her nest, §c. Procne, daughter of 
Pandion son of Cecrops, and wife of Tereus, king 
of Thrace, killed her son Itys, and served his heart 
up to his father, in revenge for the brutal lust and 


344 NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 


cruelty of Tereus, who had ravished her sister Phi- 
lomela and then cut out her tongue. “The sad 
bird ” is Procne, who was transformed into a 
swallow. ; 


And thirst, oh my Virgil, &c. This invitation of 
the poet Virgil to dinner was written probably 
soon after Horace’s return from Greece to Rome, 
and when Virgil, already backed by powerful 
friends, was much better off than himself. Choice 
perfumes were as indispensable to a Roman’s en- 
joyment of a feast as choice wines. ‘They were 
costly, and Horace requires Virgil to contribute 
this part of the essentials of their carouse. Catul- 
lus, in much the same strain, invites his friend 
Fabullus to dinner, promising to find the perfume, 
on condition that Fabullus brings with him all the 
other requisites, — thus: 


You dine with me, dear Argentine, 
On Friday next, at half past two; 
And I can promise that you “Il dine 
As well as man need wish to do; 
If you bring with you, when you come, 
A dinner of the very best, 
And lots of wine, and mirth, and some 
Fair girl, to give the whole a zest. 
’T is if you bring these — mark me now! 
That you ’re to have the best of dinners, 
For your Catullus’ purse, I vow, 
Has nothing in ’t but long-legged spinners. 
But if you don’t, you’ll have to fast 
On simple welcome and thin air; 
And, as a sauce to our repast, 
Ill treat you to a perfume rare; — 
A perfume so divine, ’t is odds, 
When you have smelt its fragrance, whether 
You won’t devoutly pray the gods, 
To make you straight all nose together. 


NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 845 


ODE XIII. p. 231. 


To Lycée. This Ode and the 25th Ode of the 
First Book present a very ugly aspect of Horace’s 
character. Lycée, like the Lydia of that Ode, was 
obviously an old mistress, and the taunts levelled at 
her are heartless in the extreme. No better proof 
could be afforded, if, indeed, any were wanted, of 
the purely sensuous feeling, which had governed 
all Horace’s amours, and of his inability to compre- 
hend that worship of the heart, which consecrates 
through all the ravages of time, or even the degra- 
dation of vice a woman who has once been loved. 
Only a pagan, it is often said, could feel or write 
as Horace does in this Ode. One would fain think 
so, were the proofs to the contrary not too numer- 
ous. Men will certainly not dare now-a-days, 
openly to avow such sentiments; that is something 
gained. But not very long since we could have 
almost matched Horace even here. Thus a great 
wit and fine gentleman of the last century, Sir 
Charles Hanbury Williams, in his published poems 
treats a former mistress, the celebrated Mrs. Mar- . 
garet Woflington, (who, however, did not like Lyce 
outlive her fascinations,) with a rude insolence 
which makes one wish she had played Sir Harry 
Wildair off the stage as well as upon it, and caned 
him roundly. While sighing at her feet he writes 
of her thus (Works, London, 1822, Vol. If. p. 4) :— 


*T is not her form alone I prize, 

Which every fool, that has his eyes, 
As well as I can see; 

To say she’s fair is but to say, 

When the sun shines at noon ’t is day, 
Which none need learn of me. 

But I’m in love with Peggy’s mind, 

Where every virtue is combined, 
That can adorn the fair. 

15 * 


846 NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 


She discards him, no doubt with good reason, 
and then, addressing to her by name an adaptation 
of Horace’s Ode to Barine (Vol. II. 8), he assails 
his former paragon in this unmanly strain: 


By tricks and cheats and lies you live, 
By breach of word and honour thrive, 
Like my good Lord of Bath. 


Those who are curious to see with what coarse 
raillery a gentleman of the last century could in- 
sult a brilliant beauty, who had condescended to 
grant him her favours, may consult the remainder 
of the poem. 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


EPODE L. p. 241. 


The occasion of this Ode is uncertain. It has 
been customary to refer it to the campaign which 
ended in the battle of Actium, B. C. 31. But 
this seems unlikely, as Mzcenas was not there. 
Mr. Thomas Dyer, whose view is adopted by Mr. 
J. W. Newman, with greater probability refers it 
to the Sicilian war, in which Mecenas took part. 
B. C. 36. The Liburnians referred to in the first 
line were vessels of a light draught, convenient 
for an officer in command, as being more easily 
moved from point to point. This epode was proba- 
bly written not long after Horace had been pre- 
sented with the Sabine villa, which he may be 
presumed to contrast in the concluding lines with 
the sumptuous villas in the more fashionable district 
of Tusculum. 


EPODE V. p. 249. 


This remarkable poem throws vivid light upon 
the practices and belief of the Romans in the mat- 
ter of witchcraft; nearly all of which survived in 
modern Europe till a comparatively recent date. 
Canidia, anxious to reclaim the vagrant affections 
of her lover Varus, murders a young boy by a 


348 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


frightful process of slow torture, in order to con- 
coct from his liver and spleen a philtre of irresisti- 
ble power. The place, the time, the actors are 
brought before us with great dramatic force. Cani- 
dia’s burst of wonder and rage, on finding that the 
spells she deemed all-powerful have been neutral- 
ised by some sorceress of skill superior to her own, 
gives great reality to the scene; and the curses of 
the dying boy, launched with tragic vigour, and 
closing with a touch of beautiful pathos, make one 
regret, that we have no more pieces by Horace in 
a similar vein. The speculations as to who and 
what Canidia was, in which scholars have indulged, 
point to no satisfactory conclusion. That she was a 
real personage, and most obnoxious to the poet, is 
certain from the peculiar venom with which he 
denounces her, not only here, but in the Satire [. 8, 
as well as from the sarcastic Recantation and Re- 
ply, which form the 17th Epode. 

Young children ,supplied a favourite condiment 
to the witches of modern Europe, as well as to 
those of Horace’s days. From them, according to 
Baptista Porta, was procured an ointment, which, 
rubbed into the skin, enabled the “ filthy hags,” the 
Canidias and Saganas of a more recent period, to 
mount in imagination into the air, and to enjoy 
amorous dalliance with their paramours. ‘Thus in 
Scot’s Discoverie of Witchcraft we find the following 
recipe for this precious embrocation cited from that 
great Neapolitan authority. “ Rt. the fat of young 
children, and seethe it with water in a brazen vessell, . 
reserving the thickest of that which remaineth 
boiled in the bottom, which they lay up and keep, 
until oecasion serveth to use it. They put here- 
unto LHleoselinum, Aconitum, frondes populeas, and 
soot.” ‘They stamp all these together, and then 
they rub all parts of their bodies exceedingly, till 
they look red and be very hot, so as the pores may 
be opened, and their flesh soluble and loose.” “ By 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 3849 


this means in a moonlight night they seem to be 
carried in the air, to feasting, singing, dancing, 
kissing, culling, and other acts of venery, with such 
youths as they love and desire most.” Reginald, 
Scot's Discoverie of Witchcraft, p. 184, ed1584. 
The sacrifice of infancy has always been thought 
welcome to the devil. Shakspeare’s witches make 
the hell broth of their cauldron “ thick and slab ” 
by adding the 


Finger of birth-strangled babe 
Ditch-deliver ed by a “drab ; 


And ingredients of a similar kind figure in most 
of the plays of the Elizabethan period, where 
witches and their orgies are introduced. See, for 
example, The Witch by Thomas Middleton, in Mr. 
Dyce’s edition of that dramatist. Vol. III. p. 259 et 
seg. — In Jonson’s Masque of Queens, one of the 
Hags thus reports her achievements. (Gifford’s 
Ed. Vol. VII. p. 130.) 


I had a dagger: what did I with that ? 
Kall’d an infant to have his fat. 


Jonson, as might be expected, has borrowed large- 
ly from Horace in this Masque, in which he has skil- 
fully brought together all the floating superstitions, 
ancient and modern, as to witches and their arts. 


EPODE VI. p. 253. 


Like him, whose joys Lycambes dash’d, §c. The 
poets who thus made Furies of their Muses were 
Archilochus and Hipponax. Lycambes had prom- 
ised his daughter Neobule to Archilochus, and 
afterwards broke his promise. The ferocity of the 

oct’s satire drove him to commit suicide. So, too, 
Haaiine a sculptor of Chios, who had caricatured 
Hipponax, adopted the same effectual means of 
escaping the sting of satirist’s verses. 


350 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


EPODE IX. p. 257. 


This Ode appears to have been written on the 
arrival in Rome of tidings of the battle of Actium. 
The “self-styled Neptunius ” was Sextus Pompeius, 
who was defeated in B. C. 36, by Agrippa off Myle, 
and again off Naulochus, in the Sicilian Sea. He 
had taken into his service all the slaves who fled to 
him. The “ woman’s slave” of the third verse is 
of course Mare Antony. 


EPODE XVI. p. 267. 


To the Roman People. 'This poem was probably 
written shortly before the peace of Brundusium, 
B. C. 40, was concluded between Antony and Oc- 
tavius, and when the dangers threatening Rome 
from civil dissensions were of the most alarming 
kind. 

The story of the Phoceeans here referred to is 
told by Herodotus (Clio 165). Their city having 
been attacked by Harpagus, one of the generals of 
Cyrus, B. C. 534, “the Phoceans launched their 
fifty-oared galleys, and having put their wives, chil- 
dren, and goods on board, together with the images 
from their temples, and other offerings, except 
works of brass or stone, or pictures, set sail for 
Chios ;” and the Persians took possession of Pho- 
cea, abandoned by all its inhabitants. They sub- 
sequently returned and put to the sword the Persian 
garrison which had been left by Harpagus in the 
city. ‘Afterwards, when this was accomplished, 
they pronounced terrible imprecations on any who 
should desert the fleet; besides this, they sunk a 
mass of red-hot iron, and swore ‘ that they would 
never return to Phocea, till this burning mass 
should appear again. ” 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 351 


The idea of the Happy Isles was a familiar one 
with the Greeks poets. They became in time con- 
founded with the Elysian fields, in which the spirits 
of the departed good and great enjoyed perpetual 
rest. In this character Ulysses mentions them in 
Mr. Tennyson’s noble monologue : 


Tt may be that the gulfs shall wash us down, 
It may be we shall reach the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 


These islands were supposed to lie in the far 
West, and were probably the poetical amplification 
of some voyagers’ account of the Canaries or of 
Madeira. There has always been a region beyond 
the boundaries of civilization to which the poet’s 
fancy has turned for ideal happmess and peace. 
The difference between ancient and modern is, 
that material comforts, as in this Epode, enter 
largely into the romantic dream of the former, 
while independence, beauty, and grandeur are the 
chief elements in the picture of the latter. 


Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 
happy skies, 

Breadth of Tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 
of paradise. 


Never comes the trader, never floats an European 
flag, 

Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, swings the 
trailer from the crag. 


Droops the heavy-blossom’d bower, hangs the heavy- 
fruited tree, 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 
of sea. 


S52 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


EPODE XVII. p. 271. 
4 


Reverse thy whirling wheel amain. A wheel ap- 
pears to have been turned by the witches and sor- 
cerers of Greece and Rome in their incantations, 
under the belief that its revolutions drew after them 
the soul of the person intended to be spellbound. 
It is to a wheel of this kind that the girl in Theoc- 
ritus, Idyll II., throughout her conjuration of the 
wandering affections of her lover, keeps up an 
appeal. 


ivyé, Ake TU THhvov euody mori S@pa Tov avdpa. 


Turn, wheel, turn my beloved from his paramour 
back to my dwelling ! 


The Iynx, torquilla, the wryneck, which was 
used by witches in compounding their love-potions, 
was fastened upon the wheel; and so in time the 
wheel itself came to be called, as in the above 
passage, Lynx. 


The days and nights, they wax and wane, 
But bring me no release from pain, §c. p. 272. 


So the witch in Macbeth threatens the Master of 
the ‘Tiger. > 


I will drain him dry as hay. 

Sleep shall neither night nor day 
Hang upon his pent-hotse lid ; 

He shall live a man forbid : 

Weary seven nights, nine times nine, 
‘Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine. 


_ The tongue, 
That slander’d Helena the fair. p. 272. 


Stesichorus who was blinded by the Dioscuri, for 
lampooning their sister, wrote a recantation, where- 
upon they restored his sight. 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 353 


Think ye, that I who can at will 
Move waxen images. p. 274. 


That is, give life and feeling to images of wax 
made to represent any one whom she wished to 
enchant. Thus the girl in the Second Idyll of 
Theocritus already referred to (v. 28). 


@$ TOUTOY TOV xnpoY eyo avy Saivou Taka, 
¢ U y 6 2) », € , or iy , 
@s Tako im’ Epwros 6 Mvvd.ios avrixa AeAgus. 
As this image of wax I melt here by aidance de- 
monic, 
Myndian Delphis shall so melt with love’s passion 


anon. 


Virgil uses the same image in the Eighth Ke- 
logue (1. 80). 
; ‘ 
Limus ut hie durescit, et hee ut cera liquescit, 
Uno eodemque igni, sic nostro Daphnis amore. 


As hardens with the selfsame fire this clay, 
That melts the while this mould of wax away, 
So, so may Daphnis melt with love for me, 

So with hard heart all other wooers see! 


And Hypsipyle says of Medea (Ovid. Heroid. 
VI. 91):— 


Devovet absentes simulacraque cerea figit, 
Et miserum tenues in jecur urget acus. 


The absent she binds with her spells, and figures of 
wax she devises, 
And in their agonised spleen fine-pointed needles 
she thrusts. 


In these passages we are again reminded of the’ 
practices of modern sorcery. The familiar instance 
of Eleanor, Duchess of Gloster, who was accused 

| WwW 


854 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


along with Hume, Margery Jourdain, and others, 
of attempting, by means of an image of this kind to 
compass the death of Henry VI., will occur to every 
one. ‘The older dramatists are full of allusions to 
the practice. ‘Thus, in Middleton’s Witch. 


Hecate. What death is ’t you desire for Alma- 
childes ? 
Ducuess. A sudden and a subtle. 
Hecate. Then I’ve fitted you. 
His picture made in wax, and gently molten 
By a blue fire kindled with dead men’s eyes, 
Will waste him by degrees. 


These images are also referred to by Horace in 
the Eighth Satire of the First Book, of which, as 
completing the series of poems, in which Canidia is 
mentioned, a translation is subjoined. 


Erewhile I was a fig-tree stock, | 
A senseless good-for-nothing block, 
When, sorely puzzled which to shape, 
A common joint-stool or Priape, 
The carpenter his fiat pass’d 
Deciding for the god at last. 
So god I am, to fowl and thief 
A source of dread beyond belief 
Thieves at my right hand, and the stake 
Which from my groin flames menace, quake, 
Whilst the reeds waving from my crown 
Scare the intrusive birds of town 
From these new gardens quite away, 
Where, at no very distant day, 
From vilest cribs were corpses brought 7 
In miserable shells to rot. 
For ’t was the common burial-ground 
Of all the poor for miles around ; 
Buffoon Pantolabus lay here, 
With spendthrift Nomentanus near ; 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 355 


It stretch’d a thousand feet in span, 

A hundred back in depth it ran, — 

A pillar mark’d its bounds, and there 
Might no man claim the soil as heir. 

Now it is possible to dwell 

On Esquiline, and yet be well, 

To saunter there and take your ease 

On trim and sunny terraces, 

And this where late the ground was white, 
With dead men’s bones, disgusting sight! 
But not the thieves and beasts of prey,’ 
Who prowl about the spot alway, 

When darkness falls, have caused to me 
Such trouble and anxiety, 

As those vile hags, who vex the souls 
Of men by spells, and poison-bowls. 

Do what I will, they haunt the place, 
And ever, when her buxom face 

The wandering moon unveils, these crones 
Come here to gather herbs and bones. 
Here have I seen, with streaming hair, 
Canidia stalk, her feet all bare, 

Her inky cloak tuck’d up, and howl 
With Sagana, that beldam foul. 

The deadly pallor of their face 

With fear and horror fill’d the place. 

Up with their nails the earth they threw, 
Then limb-meal tore a coal-black ewe, 
And pour’dits blood into the hole, 

So to evoke the shade and soul 

Of dead men, and from these to wring 
Responses to their questioning. 

Two effigies they had, —of wool 

Was one, and one of wax: to rule 

The other and with pangs subdue, 

The woollen larger of the two; 

The waxen cower’d, like one that stands 
Beseeching in the hangman’s hands. 

On Hecate one, Tisiphone 

The other calls; and you might see 


356 


NOTES TO THE EPODES. 


Serpents and hell-hounds thread the dark, 
Whilst, these vile orgies not to mark, 

The moon, all bloody-red of hue, 

Behind the massive tombs withdrew. 


* * * * * 


Why should I more ? Why tell, how each 
Pale ghost with wild and woful screech 
To gibbering Sagana answer makes ; 
How grizzled wolves and mottled snakes 
Slunk to their holes; and how the fire, 
Fed by the wax, flamed high and higher; 
Or what my vengeance for the woe, 
T had been doom’d to undergo 
By these two Furies, with their shrieks, 
Their spells and other ghastly freaks ? 

2. #) ot) ee 
Back to the city scamper’d they ; 
Canidia’s teeth dropp’d by the way, 
And Sagana’s high wig; and you 
With laughter long and loud might view 
Their herbs, and charmed adders, wound 
In mystic coils, bestrew the ground. 


NOTE TO THE SECULAR HYMN. 


For a full account of the Secular Games, see the 
article “Ludi Seculares” in Smith’s Dictionary of 
Antiquities. 

Augustus, resolved to mark conspicuously the 
close of the first ten years for which the imperial 
power had been placed in his hands, and the distin- 
guished success which had attended his administra- 
tion and his arms, appointed a great Festival, based 
upon the model of the ancient Ludi Tarentini or 
Tauri. These had been held in seasons of public 
calamity or peril, to propitiate the infernal deities 
Dis and Proserpina, who were, however, dropped 
out of view on the present occasion, and the festival 
held in honour of Apollo (the patron god of Augus- 
tus) and Diana. It was desirable to have this fes- 
tival regarded, not as something new and special, 
but merely as the observance of a periodic solem- 
nity. The Quindecemvirs, therefore, were directed 
to consult the Sibylline Books, and they reported, 
that the cyclical period for its celebration had now 
revolved (B.C.17). Ateius Capito, the celebrated 
jurist, was appointed to arrange the ceremonies, 
and Horace was requested to prepare an Ode. The 
festival was celebrated with great splendour. It 
* occupied three days and nights. The Ode was 
sung at the second hour of the night at the most 
solemn part of the festival, when the emperor, at- 
tended by the Fifteen Men, who presided over re- 


358 NOTE TO THE SECULAR HYMN. 


ligious affairs, was offering sacrifice in person on the 
banks of the Tiber. The chorus consisted of twenty- 
seven boys and the same number of girls of noble 
birth, whose parents were yet living ( patrmi and 
matrimi). See Ode IV. 6, supra, which is gener- 
ally regarded as one of the Hymns sung at an earlier 
part of the Festival. 

Diana is celebrated under the three names of 
Jlithyia (The Bringer to Light), the Greek name for 
Here and Artemis, — Lucina, also applied indis- 
criminately to Juno and Diana, and bearing the 
same signification, — and Genitalis ( The Begetter), 
supposed to be a version of the Greek TevervAXts, 
which was applied to Aphrodite as well as to 
Artemis. 


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